One Night in Mississippi (12 page)

Mississippi,

Uncle Patrick bought me
a new pair of woollen pants and a crisp white shirt. They were the nicest clothes I had ever worn. They would have matched perfectly with the shoes I had stolen from Woodson's storeroom, but I refused to wear them, choosing my old, worn and patched shoes instead. My father looked at the shoes, but said nothing.

He eyed me nervously. “This is a man's work, son.”

“I'm ready for it, sir.”

“I hope that's not true. This ain't the kind of thing a man should ever be ready for. You don't need to do this.”

“This is what's best.”

“It ain't up to you to decide what's best. I'm still your father.”

“And I appreciate everything you've done for me, but what's it gotten us? Either of us? I ain't never had anything nice my whole life. Mom's dead and buried in a hole someplace where I couldn't even find her if I tried. I don't blame you, I know you did the best you could, but don't you ever get tired of doing everything the hard way?”

My father turned away, staring out the door. He covered his eyes with hands as if he were upset at my words, but all he said was, “Son, every way is the hard way.”

He walked out into the night, and I followed.

Gnats clustered in balls around the lamppost by the porch. There were six men gathered in my uncle's front yard, and three black cars in the driveway. The men were all similarly dressed and stood in a circle, smoking cigarettes. Uncle Patrick introduced us. There were firm handshakes, but few smiles.

“Breaking one in tonight, are we?”

The men laughed, and my face burned in embarrassment.

“He'll do fine.” My uncle said. “Don't you worry about him. The kid's made of gritty stuff. Like his uncle. Like his pop.”

Uncle Patrick looked at my dad as if waiting for confirmation.

“You think he's gonna be up there tonight?” one of the other men asked.

“Up there once a week, at least. Sometimes more. I'd lay pretty good odds on it.”

“Well, if he is, then I guess he ain't going to be rallying and stirring up trouble for much longer. We ready?”

The men stubbed out their cigarettes and started towards the cars. I filed alongside my father.

“Earl, why don't you get in with me.”

My uncle gestured towards a car that he was entering. A mean-looking fellow with stubby ears and narrow teeth stood by the driver's side. My father placed his hand on my shoulder. I inhaled deeply, then shrugged his hand off and walked towards my uncle.

I remember the sound of gravel crunching under the tires and country music on the radio. In the darkness, the trees seemed closer to the road, as if they had inched forward at nightfall. My uncle and the stubby-eared man were in the front seat, talking and smoking. The car slowed. I leaned forward from where I was sitting in the back and saw a figure standing by the side of the road. When the headlights hit him, he turned.

“Is that him?” my uncle asked.

“Well,” the other man said, “it's somebody.”

He turned off the engine, and the night was suddenly loud with crickets. The three of us got out.

“Stay by the car,” Uncle Patrick told me.

Stepping into the headlights, the stubby-eared man looked pale to the point of translucence, the effect enhanced by the glistening of sweat on his cheekbones and brow. His teeth, angled inward and stained yellow by cigarettes, gave him a goblin-like appearance in the glow. The boy who was standing at the side of the road was about my age, but much taller. He dipped his head slightly, but otherwise remained still while my uncle and the other man approached.

“How ya doin', son?”

“I'm good, sir.”

“What are you doing out here this time of night?”

“Walking, sir.”

“Walking.” The stubby-eared man smiled at my uncle, but my uncle stayed silent.

“Don't look like you was walking. Look like you was just standing there.”

“I was just resting for a minute, sir.”

I watched the boy closely. He was careful to give nothing away, but it was clearly an effort for him. He clenched his fists once, then quickly released them.

“Well, it's awful late,” the stubby-eared man continued. “Where you walking to this time of night?”

“Off to fetch my brother, sir.”

“And where's your brother at?”

“Just up the road, sir. With some friends.”

The boy started to fidget. He looked like he could knock us all down with just a few blows, but he was the one who was uneasy. I realized that I felt a little sorry for him. I didn't really know what he had done, other than Uncle Patrick's vague accusations of “stirring up trouble.”

I had a sudden knot in my stomach. I hadn't pictured it like this. I had expected a wild, yelling Negro instigator, not this scared, quiet boy. I got up off the hood of the car and walked a few steps. I thought I saw something in the bushes. I strained my eyes, but the men were focussed on the boy. My uncle spoke for the first time.

“Do I know you, boy?”

“I don't know, sir.”

“What's your name?

“Graden, sir.”

“Graden. You're James Williams's boy, from off the other side of the woods.”

“Yes, sir.”

The boy's fear was apparent now, he was no longer trying to hide it or else no longer able to. He had to know now that we had come looking for him specifically. They toyed with him anyway, and the knot in my stomach grew as I watched it. I told myself that it would all be over soon, to just hold it together and do what I needed to. It was too late back out.

“You know this boy, huh?” said the stubby-eared man with a smirk.

“Hell, yes I do,” my uncle replied. He spit on the dirt and spread his hands wide. “Just about everyone does. This here is the famous Graden Williams.”

“Famous, huh? Famous on account of what?”

“Well, he famous 'cause he's almost white.” My uncle laughed. “The way I hear it, our boy Graden is just about the smartest Negro in all the county and the next one too.”

The stubby-eared man whistled as if he were impressed. “Is that a fact?”

I scraped my torn-up old shoes through the gravel and felt some of the grit and smaller stones come through the holes. I had the idea of running, but that was silly. I had caused this or caused my part in it, at least. And my daddy's part as well. There was nothing to do now but carry it through. I looked down the road for the other cars. They should be here. It would end soon.

My uncle and the other man continued to mock the boy, but I was no longer listening. Finally, I saw headlights come around the bend.

The two other cars pulled up on the roadside. The window of the first car rolled down, and the man beckoned me over. My father was in the seat beside him.

“Is that him?” the driver asked.

I looked at my father, then over my shoulder where my uncle and the other man were questioning the boy. I had to swallow hard before I could speak.

“He says his name is Graden Williams, sir. Said he's on his way up the hill to fetch his brother home from some party.”

The driver nodded. “Bring him.”

He rolled up his window, and the two cars drove on up the hill slowly. I walked over to the boy and looked at him closely. His dark skin glistened in the glare of the lights. He stared back at me without blinking.

I nodded to my uncle. The other fellow stepped forward.

“Why don't you hop in the car, son. We'll give you a ride up to catch that brother of yours.”

“I thank you, sir, but it's a pleasant night. I'd rather walk.”

Fear had now taken full grip of the boy. He looked out over the reedy grass, as if searching for help.

The other man reached out for the boy's arm. “Get in the car, boy.”

He led Graden towards the open door.

My uncle gave me a tight smile.

“You're doing fine. This ain't easy. It ain't easy for any of us, but you have to trust that what we're doing is right. That boy there is nothing but trouble.”

He patted me on the arm and headed towards the car. I stayed behind for a moment, alone. I felt nauseous, but I didn't want to look weak in front of the others or in front of my uncle. I tried to steel myself, but I could only think of what was coming next. I stood almost exactly where the black boy had stood. I looked out over the scrub and grasses, the cracked and random rocks, and the gnarled, old pine tree rising up behind them. And I saw a pair of eyes looking back at me from the tall grass.

Amblan, 2008

“Why didn't you
take me, too?”

Our eyes locked. I looked at Warren, truly looked at him, and realized that I wasn't seeing him for the first time. He had grown old, but his eyes hadn't changed. I knew now why he had come, without police, without media, and why he had never been able to let go of what happened to his brother. And now I also knew that anything I could tell him would be irrelevant. He was a man who had spent almost his entire adult life looking for the people involved in his brother's abduction, and there was no argument that I could make that would persuade him that I was any different from the others. And maybe he was right. My father was a good man, but what category do you assign to a good man who does a horrible thing? He was right. The scales don't balance that way.

“You were there,” I said.

“Yeah, I was there. Hiding in the grass. You looked right at me, and you left me there. I want to know why.”

He was holding the stock of the rifle in his left hand and rubbing the last drops of melted snow from his greying hair with his right. He paced back and forth in front of the chair, keeping his eyes on me. The picture of his brother lay on the table between us. Then he suddenly leaned forward, his whole body hungry for the answer.

“If I had said something to the others, you would have ended up the same as your brother.”

It was the wrong answer. He stopped pacing and lifted the rifle.

“Wait! Wait! Wait! Wait!” I shouted, half-stumbling half-rising from the chair with my hands in the air.

He had the barrel pointed straight at my head. He took deep, heaving breaths but his aim was steady.

“Just wait.” I said, moving slowly.

I tried to stay calm, but I could see that he was unpredictable, ready to pull the trigger at the slightest provocation. He had wanted to join his brother in that car, to be brave enough to do something to save him or else die with him. It must have haunted him every day since it had happened, knowing that his brother was taken away while he hid in the long grass beneath the pine tree. He must have wished that he had died then too, and maybe he still wished it now. I could feel the blood beating in my temples, a quick steady pounding.

“Listen, I'll tell you whatever you want. OK? But not with that gun pointed at me. Sit. Sit down.”

For a few seconds, he stared at me while I held my breath.

“We'll talk,” I continued in what I hoped was a soothing voice. I put my hand on my chest. “But … I take pills. For my heart. I need them.”

He stared at me for a moment longer, then nodded. He lowered himself into the chair, but I could see his finger flexing on the trigger guard.

Keeping my eyes on him, I hauled myself to my feet then shuffled off towards the kitchen.

Once I was there, I turned on the tap and scooped a handful of cool water into my mouth, leaning over the sink and fighting for composure. Warren's agitation was steadily increasing. If I went back into the living room, I had no doubt he would shoot me.

My coat hung tantalizingly in the foyer, but I would have to cross the doorway to the living room to get there. I had another pair of boots and a second, albeit lighter, coat in the mudroom off the back of the kitchen. I could get out that way, but how could I outrun him? Warren must have driven here. If the keys were in his pocket, there was no way to get them. I thought of slashing his tires, but there hadn't been any car in the driveway when I came in, so he must have parked it somewhere else. The only solution I could think of was to stay off the road. If I slipped out the back and through the woods, he'd have to follow on foot. I remembered the shine on his boots and knew they hadn't been waterproofed, and I remembered how he had seemed to favour one leg while getting comfortable in the chair. It wouldn't be easy for me to hike through the woods and over the hill in these conditions, but it would be much more manageable for me than it would be for him.

I opened the cupboard doors above the sink and pulled down a bottle of aspirin. I slammed the doors loudly and rattled the bottle, then slipped into the back room. I put on the jacket and boots and stepped outside. I knew my head start would not be a long one. I ran across the yard as quickly as I could, all the while waiting to hear the back door open, a shot ring out. The jacket was meant for spring, and the wind tore through it mercilessly. The boots held up much better, but the snow was deep, and my legs were already burning after the short dash to the edge of the woods. Once I was under the trees, the snow hadn't collected as heavily, and the going was much easier.

I allowed myself to look back, once. There was no movement coming from the house, but I knew it would not be long. I used the underbrush to pull myself forward, and it didn't take very long for the slope to change from uphill to down. Still, I was sweating by the time I started down the other side, and the combination of wet skin and wind was a dangerous one. I continued at a steady pace, looking occasionally over my shoulder to see if Warren was following.

For a few moments, I even thought of quitting. I considered that maybe Warren deserved his revenge. I had spent my entire adult life thinking of my father, and the sacrifice that he felt he had to make for me. I had given almost no thought to the boy in the chair, tied and bleeding in the centre of that old shed. My uncle had urged me to participate, handing me a pair of blood-rusted pliers. The others were watching closely, judging whether or not I had it in me. The soft northern boy that got picked on in school. I felt the pressure of their eyes on me, had horrific visions of what might be done to me or my father if I didn't step forward, but I was frozen. I choked back vomit, and my legs felt hollowed out beneath me, but I could not look away.

The boy's face was unrecognizable. His clothes had been torn off, and he slumped limp and motionless, other than the occasional gurgle or twitch of his foot. His dark skin absorbed the overhead light, but it was wet with blood. I don't know how long I stared at him before my father took the pliers from my hand and led me out into the night air. He whispered to me, then stepped back inside. I could still see the door closing on him, still remember the screams coming from inside.

Yes, Warren deserved his revenge. And he deserved an answer to the question that had so clearly haunted him ever since that night. But I was a coward then, and a coward now, and so Warren would be twice denied. I carried on.

After about forty-five minutes of hiking, I heard a soft buzzing. There was lots of wildlife in the area, but this was definitely an unnatural sound. I stopped, waited, listened. The buzzing grew louder. It was an engine.

I plunged forward. There would be very few trucks out on a day like this, and I desperately wanted to reach the road before this one passed. I hurled myself through bushes and scrambled over fallen logs, ignoring the dangers of deep trenches and the uneven ground. I could hear my heart pounding as the noise grew closer, then saw the woods open up into a clearing. It was only after I burst out of the woods, frantically waving my arms, that I considered the possibility of it being Warren's truck.

Headlights set the snow aglow as they bounced above the rutted road, then came to a slow stop. The driver was young, maybe in his mid-twenties. I didn't know who he was, though I thought I might have seen him around. He threw the passenger door open.

“You all right, mister?”

I nodded stiffly. The hike over, the cold set in suddenly. My hands and arms were numb, as well as my nose and lips.

“You look like a mess. Get on in. I have a blanket in the back there that you can wrap yourself in. What the hell are you doing out here in that coat?”

I didn't answer, just retrieved the blanket and tucked it around myself as tightly as I could manage. He stared at me for a second, assessing, then reached for his CB radio.

“Hey, it's Roger. I just picked up an old guy at the side of the hill, seems a little disoriented.”

The response from the other end was just a haze of static to me.

“Nope, don't know who he is, but he looks like he might be in a bad way. I'm gonna bring him in just as quick as the road lets me.”

The young man turned to me.

“Don't be alarmed, mister. I'm just going to check for some ID.”

He flipped aside a corner of the blanket and pulled the wallet out of my pocket. He thumbed through it without really looking, keeping his attention on the road. He found a card, glanced at it quickly, then was back on the CB.

“He don't have much on him, but there's a library card, says the fella's name is Earl Daniel.”

I had to blow against my lips to get them to part. I huddled inside the blanket, trembling while I answered.

“Olsen,” I said. “My name is Earl Olsen.”

I tuned out his reply. I rested my head against the window and closed my eyes.