A Southern Place (10 page)

Chapter 7: September 1958

Calvin

That September was the hottest South Georgia had ever experienced. For over a week temperatures reached 107 or higher by midday, still hovering in three digits by the light of the moon each night. The mental time clock for peanut farmers ticked loudly against fate. Plants were mature and ready for harvesting, yet the hard, dry soil in which they grew was not ideal for reclaiming them from the earth. After much deliberation between the owner, overseer, and extension agent, Oakland Plantation began the process of harvesting their substantial allotment of peanuts.

When their morning began on that humid Thursday, four workers drove tractors into the rows of plants, pulling diggers which broke into the crusty soil, loosened the plants and cut the tap roots. Just behind the blade, shakers lifted the plants from the soil, gently coaxing dirt from the peanuts, then rotating the plants and placing them back down in a windrow, peanuts up and leaves down. When dug, the peanuts could contain 25 to 50% moisture and were usually left in the windrows to dry for two or more days. However, in this severest of weather, no one could agree as to the exact drying time needed for maximum production.

Thirty-six hours later, when the tractors had covered approximately one third of the rows, two more tractors were dispensed to begin retrieving the plants. Upon filling a wagon with plants, the drivers of these tractors pulled their wagons to the stack pole stationary picker set up in the corner of the field. With brute force and pitchforks, they hoisted the plants from the wagons into the pickers, then set out again for another wagonload.

Work in the Oakland peanut fields continued day and night for nearly four days. Five salaried workers, two sharecroppers, two neighboring farmers, and an overseer worked twelve to sixteen hour shifts in the unbearable heat. Jobs were rotated, but one seemed as difficult as the next in the rigorous uphill climb towards harvest.

Calvin Mullinax was one of the younger workers and definitely the strongest and most adept. Turning over the last plants in his second double shift of three days, he jumped off his machine and helped unload the next wagon.

“The end is in sight,” he yelled, heaving a forkful into the picker.

“Damn, Cal, where do you get the energy? I’m about to pass out,” said the usually quiet Will, an older, black worker who had lived through decades of too-slowly-processed social change.

“I was the same way, til I saw the end of the row. They’re all outta the ground now. Just knowin’ it gave me second wind, I guess.”

Will said, “And not a minute too soon. You probably couldn’t hear on the tractor, but there’s been a little thunder over to the east. If we don’t get em off the ground soon, they could be in for some serious bathwater.”

Will’s words sent Cal’s movements into double time. “I’ve worked too damned hard on this crop to lose half the profits to moisture and rot. These suckers will not be rained on!” With ribbons of sweat pouring from each shake of his head, Cal finished unloading the wagon, then hopped on an empty tractor to retrieve more.

Cal and the other men worked non-stop for the next four hours with no other threat of rain. Four of the ten workers left for food, water and a few hours of sleep. Rejuvenated by adrenaline, Cal stayed on. Nearing noon on Sunday, he pulled one of the last wagons to the picker, unloading alone with one other tractor in the field.

The sun was a perfect circle of blazing orange, but the sky seemed grayer than blue. Though Cal had still not heard the rumble of thunder, his farmer’s radar told him that the drought was coming to an end. His bone-tired weariness was forgotten with the thought of rain, and each cup of water he chugged from the barrel-shaped cooler was like nectar from the gods. Exhausted, dehydrated, but giddy with a sense of accomplishment, he grabbed his pitchfork and began feeding the picker once more.

Years later, Cal would remember the soreness in his shoulders as he raised the fork for another thrust. Sometimes he thought he remembered the sound of thunder, but of that he was never sure. Retracing those moments, he could feel the slick sweat on his hands, helping the fork slide a little further than he’d intended. He’d recall thinking he should slow down, and that skimpier forkfuls might make for better timing anyway. The one thing he chose not to remember, but would feel in his dreams for the rest of his life, was the great undertow. The violent pull of the machine against the tines of his fork.

Yes, he felt the pull, but for some unknown reason he did not let go. The fork handle became an extension of his own arm, and with one heave of the fork, both the handle and his arm catapulted into the picker, leaving the rest of Calvin dangling over the side.

It hurt—dear Jesus, it hurt; he saw lightning and stars and felt white-hot fire burning within him as it tore muscle, tendon, vein and bone. From this point forward, his later memories of the event were no more than pictures he’d pieced together from the stories he was told.

When Will saw him, halfway across the hot field, he shut off his own tractor and then heard the blood-curdling scream of a wounded animal.

“I ran to you,” Will later explained, “but by then yo’ screaming had stopped. You was breathing, but lifeless and bloody—hanging like a rag doll trapped in a monster’s jaw. I touched you, but you’s didn’t know it. You couldn’t see or hear a thang, but your eyes was wide-open when I jumped down and ran like lightning to the main road.”

As the story went, Will was screaming at full volume when he approached the nearest residence, a hunting lodge occupied by the son of Oakland’s owner, employed as a recalcitrant farm worker. Phil had already called for emergency help. The two ran back to the gruesome scene at the picker. Other workers had gathered, but no one knew what to do or how to do it. Tears streamed down many of the weathered faces. One man vomited. The sound of sirens told them of the arrival of the fire truck and local sheriff, but these figures of authority seemed as lost as the farm workers on how to handle the nightmare.

Arriving with Mr. Foster, the plantation owner, Ginny Palmer, the county’s recently acquired public health nurse stepped out of Foster’s car and assessed the situation. While her petite form in glaring all-white seemed absurdly out of place, a rush of respectful quiet filled the air as she walked directly into the scene and stared. As silent tears ran down her perfectly powdered face, Ginny gave orders with the precision of a seasoned military official. She took two hypodermic needles from her bag and filled them from large vials of clear liquid. She spoke quietly to the firemen and other men. Then, boosted up by the rough, brown hands of two sheriff’s deputies, she climbed the edge of the wagon to where Calvin hung. She pressed her upper teeth over her rose-red lips as she inserted the needle into Cal’s free arm, her shaking visible to all as she repeated the procedure in the other dangling appendage.

When she finished, she gently touched his shoulder, squinting her eyes and whispering some phrase known only to God, then turned and reached for the arms that steadied her somber climb back down. Rouge and mascara streaked her whitened face, yet her pristine uniform remained spotless: a cloud of hope in a dismal desert of despair. Stepping onto the ground, she nodded her command, and the frightened and untrained group of workers began the slow and tedious task of extracting Calvin from his captor.

Nearly an hour later, an ambulance from Phoebe Putney, the big hospital in Albany, took Cal from the open peanut fields of Oakland Plantation straight to Crawford Long Hospital in Atlanta, where he remained for the next seven weeks.

❦

“I’m going to get you some more ice,” Delores said. “You need anything else?” She held the plastic pitcher and peered about the hospital room, trying to look busy.

Cal stared straight ahead and said nothing.

“Really, Cal. I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what you need,” she said.

“I don’t need a damn thing you can get me,” he said in a dull voice void of emotion.

His sister left the room with tears streaking her face.

A young doctor, who seemed close to the same age as Cal, entered with a clipboard. A heavyset nurse followed him with a tray of supplies. He silently opened the large bandage covering Cal’s stump. An inflamed flap of skin oozed drainage into an attached receptacle. The doctor fingered the area lightly, watching Cal for any reaction. There was none.

“How’s your pain, on a scale of one to ten?” he asked.

Cal rolled his eyes and said nothing.

The doctor stood straight and stepped back, thinking before he spoke. “Look, sir. I won’t lie to you. What happened to you is a horrible thing. It isn’t fair, you did nothing to deserve this kind of punishment, I would guess. But there are lots of things in life that aren’t fair—cancer, famine, poverty, war—to name a few. There are folks a lot worse off than you. Your employer has made sure you get the best care, treatment, and rehabilitation measures possible. But we can’t really help those who don’t want to help themselves.”

Cal stared intently into the doctor’s eyes, still silent.

“Okay. Once more,” the doctor said. “On a scale of one to ten, how’s your pain?” He pulled up a metal stool and sat beside the bed.

Cal waited, then spoke. “My life hurts like a ten, but my arm is gone, so I guess it’s a zero. The little piece that’s still hanging on is a five or six, I guess.” This was the longest speech he’d given in weeks.

“Well,” the doctor said. “You’re alert enough to have an attitude, and you’re not bellyaching for more drugs, so I’d say we got your meds about right.” He spoke to the nurse. “Give him another shot, wait a few minutes and change his dressing.” He stood and walked out, turning back inside the doorframe. “You really need to heal a few more months before starting rehab. Wanna go home in a couple of days?”

“Sure,” said Cal. “Might as well.”

❦

Cal’s arrival at Oakland was calm but impressive. Someone had cleaned and shined their tenant house, tied yellow ribbons to the oak in the front yard, put food in the refrigerator and flowers in every room. On Sunday, a group of Delores’s friends from the panty factory brought magazines, more food, and local gossip; Cal stayed locked in his bedroom until they left.

Word spread quickly that Calvin was not keen on visitors. However, when Delores went back to work, he found himself lonely and bored. On his fourth day at home, he dressed and was at the main barn by eight, when he knew the workers would be starting their day. Phil, Will, and another worker he’d never seen before stood by the tractors drinking their morning coffee. Calvin stood in the doorway with the sun beating on his back, smelling the hay, gasoline and livestock and wondering if he should enter. For the first time in his life, he felt like he didn’t belong there. Will quit talking when he saw him.

“Calvin, what the hell are you doing here?” He shaded his eyes to obtain a better look at him. “Shouldn’t you be in bed, taking care of yourself? Surely the boss man don’t expect you back at work already?”

Cal walked forward. “Just tired of doin’ nothing,” he said. They made their little circle wider so he could join them. Sunlight sifted through the barn walls. He tried not to look at the tractor. “Besides, a man don’t get paid to sit on his ass.” He gave them a half smile.

“But you are getting paid.” Phil pulled at the bill of his cap to make it straighter. “Same as usual. Didn’t anyone tell you? Dad talked to a personal injury lawyer. You’ll keep getting paid ’til your settlement’s final.”

“Damn, Mr. Cal.” Will reached out and slapped him on the back. “Sounds like you got it made in the shade. I know I wouldn’t be hanging around this buncha hard leg farm hands if I was getting the same pay to stay home.”

“Yeah,” said the other worker. He was young and had a space between his teeth big enough to set a nickel in. “I’d be layin’ on the couch, having a cold one and watchin’ TV. To hell with this shit.”

“Impressive, Herman, impressive,” Phil called to the new guy.

“But if you want to hang out after work—” Phil looked to Calvin. “Come on over to the lodge.” He searched Cal’s face as though looking for something that was missing. “Bet you do get pretty bored with nobody to talk to. If you’re feelin’ up to it, maybe we could do some hunting this weekend. Show me how to use that arsenal my dad keeps locked in the basement.”

“Huntin’?” The young guy squinted at Phil. “How the hell’s he gonna do any hunting with one arm. Even if he’s left handed, how’s he gonna prop his—“

Phillip coughed loudly. Cal could feel his neck redden. “My fault.” Phil nodded to him. “You’ll need to take care of that arm, get it healed up. But I’ll bet there’s all kinds of—” he faltered. “All kinds of—stuff they’ll fix you up with at the rehab place. You’ll probably out-hunt and out-fish us all.” The others nodded awkwardly.

“Well, buddy, guess we better get out to the fields.” Will threw his hat over his white-sprinkled head. “We’re harrowing in the cotton fields now.”

“Y’all think there’s something I could do around here?” Cal asked.

They looked around the barn. Cal saw tires that needed plugging, a stack of fence posts beside posthole diggers, barbed wire ready to be strung. No jobs a one-armed man could complete.

“Harvest time’s over.” Will shrugged. “Pretty slow this time of year.”

The young guy frowned. “Don’t seem slow to me,” he said.

“That’s cause you’re a damned idiot,” Phil said, hitting him upside the head so his hat flew to the barn floor. “Come on, guys, let’s do it.” To Calvin, he said, “You go get some rest, take care of that arm. Enjoy the vacation.”

Cal stood at the barn door and watched the men move out into the field. He turned and headed for home.

Days turned to weeks, and Cal’s phantom pains lessened, but his dreams were nightmares and his outlook bleak. In his first month home, he spent one night with Phil at the lodge, returning drunk and resentful but refusing to talk to his sister about it. Phil came by often and brought books. Cal accepted them, but he always had an excuse to send away the giver.

Driving was impossible, since his truck had manual transmission. He spent his days reading; he could hold a book in his left hand with no trouble, and page turning had gotten easier with practice. He tried to imagine what kind of a life he could expect from now on, and most nights ended early in a narcotic haze.

In the evenings when his eyes were tired, Cal found himself missing the damnedest things. The two hands needed to hold a burger all-the-way. Rapping his knuckles as he peered into the refrigerator. Would ribs be worth eating if someone else pulled the meat from the bone? He had learned to light a cigarette by himself, but he wouldn’t want anyone watching the sight. He daydreamed of grabbing his dog in a real embrace. Tying his shoes. Holding his own hand. Applauding. He guessed that was what the painkillers were for. That’s where the real pain was.