One Night in Mississippi (11 page)

Mississippi, 1964

The trip from New York
to Mississippi was a blur. Everything we owned fit into two suitcases that were loaded into the trunk of the bus. We sat mostly in silence. The buildings changed from tall to short, from packed tightly together to dotted across wide expanses, from grey metal and glass to wood and shingle. The highway turned from asphalt to dusty country roads, and the rise in temperature was palpable as we rode farther and farther into the south. It was my first look at the rest of America.

There were a few stops along the way, allowing the travellers to stretch their legs or get some lunch. We took hurried bathroom breaks in turns, my father concerned that if we both left the bus, we might lose our seats and not be allowed back on. Mostly we stayed on the bus, sharing a ham sandwich on stale bread and an apple, both of which he had tucked protectively inside his jacket.

When we finally arrived, we stepped off the bus and were immediately assaulted by dirt and heat. Dust clung to the frayed hems of my pants and to the stitches holding my shoes together. I felt my father's hand sweating against my own as we waited for the driver to unload the bags. The man in front of us tipped the driver a quarter when he received his bags. My father let go of my hand and walked away to avoid the embarrassment of not being able to do the same. The driver pulled our cases off the pile, frowned at me, then set the bags onto the ground. I dragged them across the dirt lot, and when I reached my father in the shade of the station's porch, I was drenched in sweat.

My father looked more tired than I had ever seen him. He gave me a thin smile and started to say something, but was interrupted by a blast from a car horn. We both turned. Uncle Patrick was seated behind the steering wheel of a blue Ford truck, waving cheerily out the window. He fumbled with the door, then got out and brushed himself off with his hat. His clean white shirt and crisp tan pants and the burst of colour in his cheeks were in utter contrast to my father's shabby, dirty clothes and the ghostly pallor of his face.

If Uncle Patrick took any notice of our appearance, he didn't show it. He flapped his hat and smiled broadly at us. “Welcome to Mississippi.”

In Mississippi, I learned that I was poor. Back in New York, the other teens I knew were no better off than I was, and so it had never occurred to me how badly off we really were. I'd overheard people talking at store counters and on porches about how tough times were, the words coming thick and slow through the southern drawl, but to my eyes that wasn't the case.

Still, I noticed that the other kids here wore clean, pressed clothes that were generally in good condition, their hair parted neatly or sometimes slicked back. They rode shiny new bicycles. The older kids were occasionally allowed to drive their father's truck or car, and their houses, while not always large, were well kept and set on swaths of open land.

It was the space that I had the most trouble getting used to. In the city we could almost always hear our neighbours, but in Mississippi I could shine a flashlight at night and not see another house, other than my uncle's.

Uncle Patrick had asked us to stay with him, but my father's pride would not allow it. Instead we stayed in a tiny clapboard house at the back of his property, a converted servants' quarters. Uncle Patrick had bought a small patch of land and had been successful enough growing peanuts on it that he had been able to purchase some of the adjoining fields as well. My father worked each day in my uncle's fields, and although I offered to help, he was insistent that I stay in school. Other than suppers together in the main house, the fees for my education were the only charity my father accepted from my uncle.

I started my junior year of high school in the fall, but it was a struggle. I had no real interest in my studies. I was ashamed of the patchwork clothing I wore, and the dirt that I could never quite get out from under my fingernails. I was mistrusted by most of the other kids because I had come from the north. Three of the senior boys snickered at me as I walked past one day, and I heard one of them say that my father and I “lived like coons.” I broke his nose with one clean shot, before his friends wrestled me to the ground and started kicking me.

My father talked to me about turning the other cheek and trying harder to fit in, while my uncle watched with a dark expression on his face and said nothing. That night they argued. I crept to the edge of the house and crouched beneath a window to listen.

“ … things are different down here, Daniel. Trying to make it on your own just ain't the way to go. Not for you or the boy.”

“I've already told you, Patrick. I don't want no part of that. I appreciate everything you've done to help us, but I will pay back everything we owe and more, once I get my feet settled.”

“Shit. Get your feet settled? What are you hoping for? That you can scrape out some kind of living on your own, keep your head just above the surface, always one day away from losing it all? Is that what you want?”

“I'm just not fond of taking charity, that's all. Particularly from the kind of people you're talking about. I know about the meetings you go to. I know the kind of people that are getting in and out of those shiny cars that show up in the driveway every week.”

“Now you hold on just a minute! Those are fine people. Look around you. I'm doing good here, Daniel. That doesn't come without a cost. These people that you're turning your nose up at have helped me. They've protected me. And they can do the same for you.”

“I don't think I need protection, Patrick.”

“And what about your boy? You got him living in a damn shack, coming home from school with a black eye and a bloody lip. You don't think he could use a little protection?”

“The kids that did that ain't got nothing to do with …”

“The kids that did that do what they're told. If they're told to stay away from someone, they stay away. Everyone here does what they're told, Daniel. That's how things work here, and you'll learn that one way or the other. I sure as shit hope it's the easy way.”

I crawled back to the shack and laid down on the cot. I had seen the difference in how people looked at my father and how people looked at my uncle. I assumed it was just a familiarity that my uncle had built up in the years that he had been here, but now I knew that it was more. I stared up at the ceiling and dreamed of the men my uncle spoke of. I dreamed of being accepted, of being respected. Maybe even of being feared. I had no idea who my father and uncle had argued about, but I knew that I wanted to be one of them.

I started to steal things. They were minor items at first, mostly candy or soda or sometimes a piece of fruit. I was sure that the storekeeper, Greely, caught me one time. He looked up from the counter just after I had slipped a bar of soap into my pocket, but he merely held my gaze for a moment, then went back to reading his paper. Sweating, I turned and walked out the door. I bathed that night with fresh soap, and I had never felt cleaner.

I grew bolder as I grew more successful. I stole a bicycle from the backyard of one of the senior boys who had beaten me. I stole three watermelons off the back of a cart bound for the market. I cracked one of them open around the back of a horse stall and devoured it hurriedly in the heat of the midday sun, then walked home with the other two under my arm as if I had just bought them, nodding and smiling at everyone I passed on the way. I stole a baseball glove, knowing that I could never show it to my father, never use it to play catch with him.

Most of the items I stole were out in the open and only required the nerve to pick them up. Only once did I break in to a place to steal something.

Tom Woodson was the local tailor, a frail wisp of a man who looked much older than his years. One afternoon, when the streets were quiet, I skipped class and slipped into the back of his store from the laneway, climbing through a window that had been propped open for air. I listened carefully to the noises outside while I tried on shoes in the near-dark of the storeroom. Several times I heard Mr. Woodson walk past the door, but he never stopped. After what seemed like an impossibly long time, I found a pair of shoes that fit me. I tucked them under my jacket, climbed out the same way I had come in, and sprinted almost the whole way home.

The next day I dressed as I normally did, in a faded but neatly pressed shirt and pants worn thread-thin in some parts. I tied the laces on my regular stitched-together shoes and presented myself at breakfast. My father doled a spoonful of grits onto my plate.

“Are you having any, Pop?”

My father gave me a thin smile, then walked out the door for a day in the fields.

I waited until I finished my grits, then went back into my room to change my shoes. I told myself that I didn't care what the other kids at school thought, but I knew it wasn't true. I wanted them to look past my shabby clothes and notice my new shoes instead. I wanted them to ignore my northern accent and the servants' quarters where we lived, and — although I was ashamed to admit it — to forget my dad and his stubborn insistence on doing things his way.

When I arrived at school, the shoes drew more attention than I had intended.

My father was waiting for me when I got home. One of the teachers had taken it upon himself to drive all the way out to our home to tell my father about my new shoes and to politely imply that they could not possibly be mine.

My father marched me barefoot back into town, shoes in hand. Mr. Woodson was idly wiping the counter in his shop when we walked in. He looked at me, looked at the shoes, looked at my father, then went right back to his cleaning. My father nudged me forward. I cleared my throat, but when I spoke, I still could hear a nervous squeak in my voice.

“Mr. Woodson.” He looked up from his cleaning, and I held up the shoes. “Mr. Woodson, sir. I have come here to make an apology to you.”

Woodson's hollow cheeks captured the shadows in the room, making it seem like his eyes were flat grey lights just floating in darkness. There was no expression on his face. I could feel my father's heated stare behind me. I continued.

“Mr. Woodson, I stole these shoes from your storeroom. They do not belong to me. I would like to return them, sir, and to say I'm sorry.”

“Well, that's all right there, Earl. Boys will be boys, I guess.”

I was stunned. I had expected him to be angry. I stepped forward to put the shoes on his counter, but he raised his hand to stop me.

“Keep them.”

There was a moment of silence. I turned to look at my father, who came to stand beside me.

“I appreciate your patience, Mr. Woodson, but that is not an option.”

Woodson put down his cloth and leaned over the counter, his lean face now coming fully into the light. He ignored my father and looked at me.

“Your uncle came to see me earlier. Those are your shoes now, son.”

My father looked as if he'd been punched in the stomach. He took a deep breath. I could almost see the anger welling up in him, first his hands closing, then his shoulders tightening, and his jaw clenching. When he spoke, I could tell it was an effort for him to keep his voice calm.

“My brother is a generous man,” my father said, “but my son has not earned these shoes, and he is here to give them back.”

“Well, Mr. Olsen, your brother made it clear to me that the boy is to have them shoes, so I'm afraid I have to disregard your wishes. I can't take 'em back.”

I stood holding the shoes while they stared at each other. My father was a proud man, but this was not his world. It was apparent even to me that things worked differently here than they did back in New York, in ways that neither of us could quite understand. What I did understand was that my uncle knew this place and had made it work for him. And I also knew that my father never would.

He grabbed my arm and spun me towards the door. I could feel him burning with shame the entire walk home, and I regretted having brought us to this.

We reached Uncle Patrick's house just in time to see a polished black Studebaker leaving the driveway. Uncle Patrick sat on the porch, smoking a cigar. We started towards our quarters in the back, but my father jerked my arm to force me to stop. He looked at the shoes in my hand, then at my feet, dirty and blistered, and bleeding slightly from the walk. He turned to the porch without a word, and I followed.

He stood in front of Uncle Patrick, but couldn't look him in the eye. Uncle Patrick exhaled a thick mouthful of smoke. He had won and my father had lost, though at what I wasn't yet sure. My uncle crushed out his cigar.

“There is something come up we could use some help with.”

My father nodded at Uncle Patrick, then turned to me.

“Go back to the house,” he said. “Your uncle and I have some things to talk about.”

I was frightened, but I knew that whatever was about to happen was because of me. I could still see the Studebaker driving away, glistening in the late afternoon sun. I looked at my father, with his head hung, and I couldn't picture him ever being a man in one of those cars, couldn't picture him as one of the men that commanded the respect that my uncle clearly held.

I had never openly defied my father before, but I stepped up onto the porch beside my uncle, my new shoes in hand.

“I'm staying. If there's something you need help with, I can help too.”

Amblan, 2008

I had never told
my father's story before. When I moved here, I hadn't just changed my name; I'd tried to make a completely fresh start. I deliberately broke off contact with everyone from my past, other than my father. I drove across the border with a Mississippi licence, then cut it to pieces once I arrived. I burned every photo except one, a faded shot of my parents holding hands shortly after their wedding. I paid cash for the little winterized cottage on the hill, avoiding any official paperwork, collected my magazines at the library to avoid having anything sent to the house, and had the post office hold my mail for a weekly pickup for the same reason.

It was only by chance that I had caught word of Warren's efforts to reopen the investigation. Jared Hutchinson was guiding a couple of hunters from northern Michigan, in town for buck season. They had seen a piece on television about it and mentioned it while they were out on the trail. Jared repeated the story while we sat in the coffee shop later in the day, incredulous that someone could still be tried for something that they'd done some forty-odd years earlier. I excused myself clumsily and spent the next few days holed up in the cottage before deciding to use the library computers to find out whatever I could.

Now, Warren Williams was sitting in my living room. It was hard to recall all of the details of that former life, the crushing poverty, the sudden move south, the struggle not just to survive but to somehow fit in.

“My daddy did a terrible thing, I know that. He got involved in something horrendous, but it was my fault he got involved. He wasn't one of those folks. He shouldn't have his name up beside theirs.”

“I got no interest in assigning fault.”

“That a fact? You sure do seem to have put a lot of time and effort into finding out a whole lot about all of us. If you're not interested in hearing about it now, then what are you doing here? And how did you find me?”

He shifted in his seat, seeming to favour his left leg.

“Someone saw your face on the news. Called and told me you were here. Wasn't anything difficult.”

“And you came all this way to see for yourself.”

“Everybody that had a hand in my brother's killing is either passed on or behind bars. Only one living free is you.”

“You make it sound so damn simple, and it wasn't like that at all. There was a lot of things going on back then, it was complicated. You, the courts, the FBI, the media. You ever think that maybe, just maybe, you don't know what really went on that night?”

Warren was growing agitated. The anger that had flashed briefly returned, and this time it held. He uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, gripping his hands tighter on the rifle.

“I know plenty about what happened that night. I know that he was beat for hours. I know that his chest was carved up. I know he was castrated. I know he lived through it all and was still alive when he was dumped in the swamp. I know more about that night than I would ever want to know in a hundred lifetimes.”

“So you're gonna set things straight then? You're gonna … haul me in and make everything right with the world. What do you really think you've accomplished so far? I'll tell you what. Nothing! Nothing's changed, and sending me off to prison ain't gonna change nothing either.”

He pulled himself up to his feet. “I don't need to change things. Never did. But you think you somehow got the right to walk around free just because
time
has passed? You don't.”

“Well, where's the police then? That's how you work, ain't it? Showing up on the front lawn of doddering old men with half the police squad and three different news teams. You're a regular celebrity. Just about that time, isn't it? Call 'em in! Hope you got all cleaned up for the camera.”

It seemed I had hit a nerve, because Warren was angrily clenching and unclenching his jaw. “Don't need news teams for this. Don't need police neither.”

“And what makes me so special?”

“You're the one who knows what I want to know.”

“What's that?”

His voice shook as he spoke, although whether it was fury or grief I couldn't tell. There was a shift of mood in the room, and I was suddenly licking my lips, more nervous than I cared to admit.

“I want to know why didn't you take me too?”