Where Southern Cross the Dog (3 page)

He headed downstairs, smiling again as he listened to his mother ask Rachel, as she had for years, to please knock quietly on Travis's door the next time. Rachel was already at the table, picking through her eggs and fried potatoes while the radio played softly in the background.

“And that was ‘Deep in a Dream,' by Artie Shaw,” the radio announcer said. “That song is sure to be one of the most popular hits of 1938. It's been one of our favorites, and our listeners' too, for over eighteen weeks now. We'll be back in a moment.”

“Good morning, Mom,” Travis said, leaning down and lightly kissing his mother on the cheek as she stood in front of the stove.

Margaret gently pushed back her curly auburn hair from the sides of her face so she could see her son's face better. “Glad you're home safely.”

“Got your favorite radio station on?” Travis said.

“Of course,” she smiled, setting a plate down at Travis's usual spot, then wiping her hands on the beige apron that covered her maroon dress.

“Morning, Rache,” Travis said as he sat down. His sister cut him off with a glance, and he turned his attention to the breakfast before him. He sized it up, deciding what to sample first. He took a sip of his coffee, and then broke a perfect, glistening egg yolk with his fork.

Travis looked up from his plate at Rachel. She was fifteen, no longer the childish girl he once knew. Even as she glared at him, her green eyes and jet-black hair were almost magical. Her complexion was a nutty brown that radiated, as it always did, from the first days of summer until almost Christmas.

The clothes she wore were in no way provocative—Travis's parents would have none of that—but they hung on her in a way that hinted at her athleticism, confidence, and femininity. The day Travis would have to scare off countless unacceptable suitors was approaching. Shortly, his sister would be a woman of the South. Not a belle, but a woman. She could cook, tend house, mix drinks, and do everything her mother could. Well, almost. Her cooking skills needed a little fine-tuning, but not much.

Travis mused about Rachel in silence. It wasn't that Travis and Rachel didn't get along; rather, that Travis, like so many sons of the South, was the recipient of a mother's abundant adoration and attention. Rachel believed this would corrupt Travis so that no woman could ever measure up, and she considered it her unenviable task to ensure that Travis always had one foot grounded in reality, even if she had to put it there herself.

“Rachel, dear, would you like to tell your brother good morning?” their mother said.

Rachel looked at him and grimaced. “Thanks for dressing for breakfast.”

“Where's Dad?” Travis asked.

“He was called in to work very early,” Margaret said.

“Do you know what he wants me to do today?”

“Well, I think he wants you to meet him down at the courthouse. He should have a list of things for you to check on by then. He also asked how those applications to Mississippi, Virginia, and Emory were coming.”

Travis winced at the thought of poring over the dreary questions on law and medical school applications. He was procrastinating, at the least, putting them off indefinitely if he could.

He finished his bacon, methodically making his way around the plate, eating one thing at a time. His biscuits were next.

“Just eat it,” Rachel moaned as she watched his ritual.

Travis ignored her. “Okay,” he said casually, “I'll go down to the office after breakfast.” He purposely neglected the topic of his applications, hoping his mother would forget she mentioned it.

“Can Travis take me to work?” Rachel asked.

Travis had hoped she wouldn't make the request, but his mother nodded, and he was instantly obligated.

“Your father left the car at the courthouse for you, so you can walk over with Rachel, take her to work, and then go back to the courthouse,” she said.

Travis sopped up the last bit of egg yolk with a biscuit and realized that he had once again eaten too much. He finished his coffee and pushed his chair away from the table while motioning for Rachel to pass her plate to him so he could take it to the sink.

“I'll get it myself,” Rachel snapped. She rose from the table.

Margaret leaned over and took her plate. “I'll get all this. Y'all get ready to go. You don't want to keep your father waiting.”

Travis went back upstairs, dressed quickly, and returned to find Rachel waiting outside on the porch. He stood for a moment, taking in Clarksdale, listening to the bustling activity of harvest time in the Cotton Belt.

“Ready,” he said, stepping off the porch.

They walked to the sidewalk in front of their house, turned left, and headed down Clark Street. Clark and nearby John Street were lined with the large and stately homes of Clarksdale's most prominent and well-to-do families. Huge oaks, magnolias, elms, and dogwoods adorned the front yards of houses distinctive yet similar to their neighbors. Some, built in 1919 during one of King Cotton's
heydays, were representative of that era's extravagance and the excesses that often accompanied a surge in cotton prices. Others dated to a more conservative period, their simple frame structures a clear indication of less prosperous cotton seasons.

The oldest houses included the home of John Clark, Clarksdale's founder and brother-in-law of James Lusk Alcorn, a noted Mississippian who had been at various times a Confederate general, a U.S. senator, and a governor of Mississippi. Alcorn, a moderate Republican, was known as the sage of Coahoma County, and during Reconstruction he had been Clarksdale's leading citizen. Begun a few years before the War Between the States, the two-story mansion, which overlooked the town's river, was moved on logs in 1916 to make room for the Cutrer home, an Italian Renaissance villa, whose owners, Clark's daughter and her husband, desired the property for its view.

The Montgomery family home was one of the smaller ones on the block, a wooden, two-story house with just three bedrooms and an outside porch that wrapped halfway around the house. Because he was an elected county official, Travis's father thought it prudent to live in such a home. He always said that when taxes pay your salary, it's better to live modestly—unless, of course, you were a judge.

Travis and Rachel turned left onto John Street, passing the big house that stood on the corner. It was the former home of Governor Earl Brewer, who had built it upon returning to Clarksdale from Jackson after his term as governor from 1912 to 1916, and it was one of the finest homes in Clarksdale. Travis had been inside only once, while playing with one of Governor Brewer's grandchildren. In a house of that size, hide-and-seek was a popular game, and Travis had once hidden for more than two hours. He was eventually found sleeping in a closet.

The brother and sister then turned right onto First Street and headed for the west side of town, where the city hall, county courthouse,
and county jail were located. They passed Issaquena Avenue on their left and peered down the street at its many shops.

“Looks busy today,” Travis said, though they both knew the Delta was always busy this time of year.

Farther down Issaquena stood the train depot along the Illinois Central line. Past the tracks was the other Clarksdale: black Clarksdale.

Travis and Rachel turned onto Sunflower Avenue, and they easily spotted their father's car. Travis reached under the driver's seat and felt around for the keys. The car started right up, and they traveled south down Sunflower Avenue, which ran parallel to the Sunflower River. Travis turned right onto Highway 61 and drove for a few miles until he reached the Gilman plantation. Although it no longer operated like the plantations of an earlier century, many Southerners still liked to refer to the old farms as such, taking rebellious delight in all the connotations that accompanied the word.

They drove past the cotton pickers, bent at the waist, some appearing to crawl as they half-carried, half-dragged their canvas sacks, slowly filling them with cotton. Most of those men and women in the field were sharecroppers, but Travis knew it was just another name for legitimized slavery. Abandonment was their only escape.

Travis pulled up to the plantation's commissary, a small store where most of the tenants and sharecroppers bought food and day-to-day necessities. He turned to his sister. “You want me to pick you up this afternoon?”

“Okay. Why don't you come back around five o'clock?” Rachel said. “Do you know if Mom wanted anything from the store?”

“She didn't say anything to me about it.”

“See you later,” said Rachel by way of thanks. She stepped from the car and slammed the door. She walked up a couple of stairs, opened the commissary door, and was gone.

Travis cautiously backed up, watching carefully for pedestrians, and pulled onto Highway 61. He accelerated toward town past a
steady flow of trucks rolling in the other direction, headed to the gin. He had always lived in town, never the country. The plantation owners—their habits, politics, and thinking—were simultaneously comprehensible and foreign to Travis. He usually felt uncomfortable here, beyond the rules of fair play and a town's scrutiny. It seemed to Travis that on the plantations the rules were like those in any card game where the house plays a hand. Rule Number One: The house wins all ties. This always gave the house a slight advantage. And Rule Number Two: Don't ever forget or try to change Rule Number One.

Lord, I've got a trouble in mind.

—Mississippi John Hurt

CONRAD HIGSON KICKED ASIDE A SMALL RUG ON THE floor of his bedroom. He bent down and, with both of his thick hands, grasped a short rope tucked into a six-inch slot on what looked like a floorboard. He tugged at the rope, and several boards rose together with a reluctant creak. He rotated the small door 180 degrees on its hinge and laid it down.

Then he gingerly climbed down the stairs that led to a tiny study underneath his bedroom. He had to stoop as he made his way to the desk in one corner of the room, although once he sat down, his balding head was about two feet below the ceiling, giving him ample room in which to work.

When Higson first came to Clarksdale, he had looked for a house built on the highest piers he could find. After he moved in and paid
rent for two months, he had constructed this room—his laboratory, as he called it. Since the piers were so high, he had only needed to excavate two feet of soil. He had shored up the sides of the small room with boards and put in a floor. The boards also helped seal the room from the Delta's pervasive dampness. Outside, shrubs and latticework surrounded the perimeter of the house and concealed the room from view, even when someone was standing in the yard.

The house itself was isolated, about four miles outside of Clarksdale, stuck in the middle of several crop fields with only one small road leading in. It was like his own private island: he could see anyone driving or walking through the surrounding fields toward the house.

It was close to noon when Higson sat down at his desk. He turned on a light and placed a blank piece of paper in his typewriter.

August 20, 1938

General Herman Schnor

Ministry of Public Enlightenment and Propaganda

Leopold Palace

Berlin, Deutschland

Dear General Schnor,

It has been several weeks since my last correspondence, and I am eagerly anticipating the resolution of my application for reinstatement. I hope it will come soon, as I am growing tired of the warm Southern climate.

I have been working furiously and recently entertained several professors from some very prestigious universities in Oxford, Mississippi. They were very knowledgeable about the new generation of engines being used in mechanical harvesters very similar to the one I am building. They provided some fascinating drawings and research results, which I have already forwarded.

In addition, another of my colleagues is making great advances in the manufacturing and machining of high-strength, lightweight materials, which will have many agricultural applications. He has promised to send me several papers they are preparing for publication. I shall translate these and forward them to you as soon as possible.

In a few weeks, I am attending the Texas Cotton Association's annual conference in San Antonio, Texas. I shall send all papers and other materials that I collect. And later this fall, I plan to visit the University of Tennessee to review their agricultural research facilities. This trip should be quite informative.

Please tell the Chairman and the other members of the review committee that I have learned much here. I am prepared to bring this knowledge back to Germany and stand ready to serve in my best and most useful capacity.

This is my hope and my plea. I beg for a quick approval of my reinstatement application.

Respectfully,

Professor Conrad Higson

Clarksdale, Mississippi

Higson slumped back in his hard chair and read through the letter. Then he folded it precisely into thirds, typed an address on an envelope, and sealed the letter inside. He placed the envelope on top of a large box, also ready to be mailed, then climbed out of his laboratory.

Later in the day, he loaded the box into his car, placed the envelope in his coat pocket, and drove north to Memphis. The whole way, he prayed that the wretched Southern landscape would soon be a vague and nondescript memory.

I walked around this world.

—Memphis Minnie

TRAVIS ENTERED THE COURTHOUSE AS TWO ELDERLY women were exiting. “Good morning, ladies,” Travis said, holding open the heavy door as they passed by. He walked to the stairwell and ascended to his father's second-floor office. He opened the office door and greeted his father's longtime secretary.