The Waking (32 page)

He sighs. “Well, it happened in Leflore County, Mississippi, not that I’m from there, you understand.”

I nod. If Red’s not from there, he has to be from somewhere close to there.

“
Emmett wasn’t nothin’ but a little fourteen-year-old boy from Chicago. Said he has a white girlfriend back in Shytown, and he got hisself killed for whistlin’ at a white woman. They beat him to death so badly his mama could only identify him from a little ring on his finger. And the white men that did it got off and later sold their story to a magazine for four thousand dollars, and they admitted that they did it right there in that magazine.” He stares hard at me and dips his head. “You with me? You understandin’ me?”

“
What does this have to do with you killing a man?”

“
Everything, boy. Everything I tell you got somethin’ to do with me killin’ that man.” He looks off in the woods again. “Didn’t even have the right to vote back then. Oh sure, we had the right to, but we didn’t have the
might
to. There’s a difference. You couldn’t go register like you can now. We had to go to the courthouse.” He pauses.

“
So you went to the courthouse.”

“
Why else do folks go to the courthouse?” Red asks.

“
I don’t know. To go to court.”

He nods. “Right. They made us go to the place where many of us went on trial and ended up on some chain gang somewhere. It’s like sendin’ folks who hate the dentist to the dentist, you get me?”

“
I hear you.”

“
So we go to the courthouse and try to pass a test that was meant to fail us. I remember one man gettin’ pistol-whipped while he was only
tryin’
to register, and then they arrested
him
for disturbin’ the peace cuz he yelled so loud while they was beatin’ him. I also remember ol’ Sam Block gettin’ hisself arrested just for goin’ around the county tryin’ to register voters. The judge was gonna give him six months and a five-hundred-dollar fine, but if ol’ Sam left Mississippi and promised not to try to register no more people, the judge was gonna set ol’ Sam free.” He turns to me. “Ol’ Sam was a man, and he bulled his neck, and he said, ‘I ain’t gonna do none of that.’” He looks away. “And Sam went to jail. Oh, we was all so full of holy fire after that. We
all
waited in line to fail that test. Then they started shootin’ folks and bombin’ places. They even said we was shootin’ at ourselves and bombin’ ourselves to get publicity. And if it wasn’t for them siccin’ dogs on us, it all woulda jes’ … blown away in the wind like that Bob Dylan feller said it would. After those dogs, everybody showed up in Greenwood, Mississippi, and I mean, everybody. Bob Dylan, Medgar Evers, even Dick Gregory. Yeah, that Dick Gregory was somethin’ else.”

I didn’t read anything about Dick Gregory up in Memphis. “Um, who was Dick Gregory?”

“
A big-city comedian.” Red laughs. “A Yankee. That man said things, things we only
dreamed
of sayin’ to white folks. He said them illiterate cops couldn’t have passed the test either, and they probably couldn’t. I wouldn’t be surprised if those cops never got out of the fifth grade. And Gregory even told the mayor to his face that he must be takin’ nigger pills.” Red chuckles. “Yeah, Dick Gregory was a hero to us. We didn’t really need no hero, I mean, we outnumbered ‘em back then, probably still do in Mississippi. I guess it was his time to be a hero, I don’t know. But …” He looks back at me. “I ain’t borin’ you, am I?”

“
No sir.”

“
Good. Cuz you got to know where you come from before you can get to where you’re goin’. And I can tell that you don’t know nothin’ about nothin’.”

I don’t have a comeback for that one because he’s right.

He shakes his head. “All you young bloods don’t know nothin’ about nothin’.”

He’s telling the truth … whoever you are. Who
are
you, anyway?

I try to shake The Voice out of my head. “What happened in Greenwood?”

“
You jes’ humorin’ an old man, or do you really wanna know?”

“
I really wanna know.”

He finishes his coffee. “Ain’t nothin’ happen in Greenwood. It all just slipped away as quietly as a summer storm and went east like we’re goin’. Montgomery and Birmingham and that King fella stole what coulda been our thunder.” He stands. “Train will be by momentarily.” He looks up. “And we’ll be ridin’ on top, I think. Nice day for it.”

I stand. “Are you going to tell me about the man you killed?”

He starts walking toward the tracks. “You get on as well as you jump off, I may be tellin’ folks about the man the
train
killed
before
I got a chance to tell him about the man I killed, now come on.”

14: On the
Illinois Central
, Tupelo, Mississippi to Birmingham, Alabama

Getting on a train with Red is easy. We simply stand six inches away from the train roaring by until a car with two ladders arrives. Red grabs the first ladder and picks up his feet, letting the train pull him along until he can get his feet up on the ladder, and I do the same with the second ladder. We
catch
the train. There’s no jumping involved, and except for the initial strain on my shoulders, it’s not that painful. I crawl to the top, and we meet in the middle.

“
Come down on my side!” he shouts, motioning behind him. “Hard to talk up here!”

I follow him down to where the cars are coupled, and we sit on a ledge about six inches wide, our legs stretched out over the coupling, which shifts and shakes as the train click-clacks along. I hope I tied my boots tight enough.

“
So tell me the whole story,” I say, and I realize that it’s surprisingly quiet between the cars, the only sound a whoosh of wind going by.

“
I ain’t even
started
my story yet.”

And Red isn’t kidding about that.

He first tells me about the signs. “‘No dogs, Mexicans, or Negroes,’ they used to say. Treated us like dogs, too. Animals, that’s all we were to them.” He puts his arm against mine. “You’d pass the brown bag test.”

“
The what?”

“
The brown bag test. Your skin is light, and it’d be lighter than a brown bag. That would get you accepted places. You got a dark girlfriend?”

“
Yes.”

“
I knew it. And you know what that tells me?”

“
No.”

“
It tells me that you’re just validatin’ your blackness.”

“
Huh?” Validating my blackness? What is this stuff? I’ve only ever been black.

You better straighten this old man out, Manny.

I’m trying, now hush.

“
You ever mess with a white girl?”

“
Yeah. So? I’m half-white.”

“
No you ain’t. One drop makes you black. Folks runnin’ around sayin’ they’re both. Can’t be no
both
down here. You can only be black in Mississippi.”

I’m beginning to wonder who has more demons, Red or me. “Look, I love Mary, who just happens to have dark skin. I’d love her if she was green, blue, or purple.”

“
A black girl named Mary? She proud?”

“
Huh?”

“
Never mind.” He shakes his head. “Doesn’t know music neither.”

What’s he talking about?

I know.

Well, tell me.

You told me to hush.

Just tell me. I know you can’t hush for long.

Proud Mary. Music. Put it together.

I don’t know.

Ike and Tina Turner, Manny. Everybody knows that.

But I didn’t. That means that you aren’t—

Shh. He’s talking again.

“
Boy, what I’m about to tell you I ain’t never told no one,” Red says, “and I’m only gonna tell you cuz I ain’t gonna be around much longer. And if you tell a single soul about this while I’m still alive, I’ll hunt you down and kill you.”

I believe him.

So do I.

“
I’m good at being quiet.”

“
You’ll want to tell folks about this, trust me.”

I watch the greenery flying by in a blur. “How will I know you’re dead?”

“
Hmm.” He nods. “Good point. Jes’ don’t tell it nowhere in the South.”

“
I won’t.”

“
Specifically Mississippi.” He coughs. “How many kids in your family?”

“
Just me.”

“
Just one? Boy, I had thirteen brothers and sisters.”

Whoa.

They had a football team with three on the bench.

“
And we all had to work,” Red says. “When I was six or seven, I was up at sunrise every single day collectin’ golf balls for the white men at the golf course. I didn’t want to work for white folks like everyone else in my family, but it wasn’t that hard. And they all weren’t mean. As long as I gave ‘em lots of compliments, I got lots of change.” He laughs. “And some of ‘em couldn’t play a lick.” He stops laughing. “But I hated ‘em just the same.”

He looks into the sky. “My granddaddy came home from France wearin’ his uniform, so they tell me, and he was lookin’ sharp with all those brass buttons. White folks didn’t like him wearin’ that uniform, so the Ku Klux cut all those buttons off. It wasn’t the time of the double-V. That wasn’t till the next war.”

“
The double-V?”

“
The double-V. You ain’t heard of it?”

“
No.”

“
It was started by that Mr. Vann of yours in the
Pittsburgh Courier
. Great newspaper, that was, one of the best newspapers that ever was.”

Vann … He was on the plaque at Freedom Corner.

Yeah. Robert Vann.

“
Yeah, one of the V’s was for victory over the Germans,” Red continues, “and the other V was for victory over racism back here. The double-V. Nice idea, but it didn’t amount to nothin’. And neither almost did my granddaddy. After the Ku Klux cut off all his buttons, he had to go beggin’ some rich white man for money during the Depression. Granddaddy called the rich man up, and the man told him no. So Granddaddy went to the man’s business with my daddy and sat in that office till it closed. They sat there for twelve hours. Then Granddaddy went in and told him, ‘I need money.’ The white man said, ‘You comin’ back tomorrow?’ ‘Yes sir,’ Granddaddy said. They mighta cut the brass off his uniform, but they didn’t cut the brass outta him. The white man couldn’t believe a colored man was so bold. ‘You comin’ back tomorrow even if I don’t give you no money?’ he asked. Granddaddy didn’t bat an eye. ‘Even if,’ he said. Granddaddy got fifteen dollars from that man that very day, and Granddaddy paid back every cent, and that white man never called my granddaddy a nigger, not … even … once.”

I can’t help asking, “What happened to him?”

“
Granddaddy lived to be a hundred and seven.”

“
Whoa.”

“
Can’t say the same for my daddy, though. Wish I could, but I can’t. You see, feedin’ fourteen children
and
payin’ the rent wasn’t easy, even with all of us workin’ for the white folks. One day Daddy got behind in the rent, and we got kicked out.” He shakes his head. “They was jes’ waitin’ on the day he couldn’t pay, I know it. And they put all our furniture out in the rain. All of us, my mama, my daddy, and fourteen children sittin’ out in the rain on our furniture. I’ve never been able to get over that smell.” He closes his eyes. “That smell of old, moldy furniture.”

“
It still happens,” I say, reminded of families kicked out of the Bedford Dwellings.

“
It ain’t the same,” he says, opening his eyes, “cuz nowadays they give you notice. They didn’t give us no notice. One day we’re in a house, the next day we’re sittin’ in our furniture at the side of the road.” He sighs. “So mama and daddy farmed us out to our relatives, to our cousins, broke us all up so we could survive. I hated it so much, to be away from my whole family, so I tried gettin’ work wherever I could, you know, so I could get enough money for us to live under one roof again. I shagged balls, hauled whatever needed haulin’, cleaned whatever needed cleanin’. I remember once cleanin’ out some old white lady’s basement, haulin’ old junk for most of a morning into a big pile in her backyard, and I was sayin’ to myself, ‘This here’s a two-dollar job for sure, all this work I been doin’ for this ol’ white lady.’ And you know what? She gave me a quarter. ‘Is this all you gonna give me for all this hard work I done here this hot mornin’?’ I asked her. She told me it was more than enough. ‘Well,’ I said, ‘it ain’t enough, and I want two dollars.’ That’s when the woman threatened me and even threatened to call the cops on me. All I wanted was decent pay for a nasty, dirty job she wasn’t willing to do herself. I let her keep her quarter, and I haven’t done nothin’ for white folks ever since.” He turns to me. “Present company excepted, of course, since you think you’re both.”