Where Southern Cross the Dog (7 page)

“How do you do, Travis,” Hannah said.

An awkward silence held for a few moments as the setting sun cast a long beam of light into the car. It filled the backseat, dancing around Hannah's face and hair, its brilliance enhancing her beauty. Her skin was flawless, her eyes bright, her features matchless.

“What's in the bag?” Travis asked again.

“Oh, these are some books for Hannah,” Rachel said. “She can't get all the good ones she wants down at her library, so I've been checking some out for her. But we don't like to let anyone know what we're doing. You know—”

“What do you like to read, Hannah?” Travis asked.

“Mostly the classics,” she said. “Shakespeare, books like that. Some poetry, too.”

“Hannah's father is in the insurance business,” Rachel said.

“Is his name Richard?”

“Yes, it is,” replied Hannah, somewhat puzzled.

“I met him the other day at Mr. Hollingsworth's funeral home. He seems very nice.”

“I'm sure he is, but he's still my father. My view is somewhat different.”

“You haven't been in Clarksdale long, have you?”

“No. We moved down a few months ago from Philadelphia, to be near my grandmother. My parents were worried about her health, although she's never been sick and doesn't seem to be now. She used to visit us when we lived in Atlanta, and she lived with us up North for a little while. But she wanted to come back home.”

Silence fell again. Finally, Hannah broke it. “It's nice living near my grandmother. She's the one who got me interested in books. She taught me to read.”

“You came from Philadelphia?” Travis said. “You don't usually hear about people moving to the South from up North. That's the wrong direction for most people in the Delta. Were you in school there?”

“At Cheyney University,” Hannah said, still gazing out the window. “I'm helping my grandmother now. I'll go back to school next year, closer to Clarksdale.”

Travis entered the city limits. “Where do you live?” he asked, trying to keep his voice calm, though he knew perfectly well what side of Clarksdale Hannah Morgan lived on.

“Do you know where the Brickyard area is?” Hannah asked.

“Yes,” Travis said.

“We live on Mississippi Avenue.”

To get to Brickyard, Travis first had to drive through Roundyard, a neighborhood immediately south of Brickyard next to the Sunflower River. They looked out the windows at Roundyard's small homes, many adorned with dry flaky paint and drooping roofs.

“Most of these homes are rentals,” Travis said. “You'd think the owners on the other side of town would at least throw some paint on them every once in a while.”

“Why should they?” Hannah said. “They don't have to live in them.”

Once in Brickyard, the houses became larger and better kept, their yards manicured and their paint fresh.

“Do you have indoor plumbing?” Travis asked.

“Absolutely,” Hannah said quickly. “It's a newer house, so the plumbing was in when we bought it. But some of those bigger, older homes up there don't.” Hannah pointed straight ahead between Travis and Rachel. “Anyway, my parents would never have moved back if we didn't have indoor plumbing.”

Travis drove slowly down Mississippi Avenue.

“It's two houses up on the left,” Hannah said.

Travis stopped in front of the house. White with brown shutters, it sparkled from a fresh coat of paint, and it stood out as the nicest house on the block.

Hannah got out of the car and walked to the passenger's side window, where Rachel sat.

“Thank you for the ride,” Hannah said. “I hope it wasn't too far out of your way.”

“Not at all,” Rachel said. She passed the bag of books to Hannah through the window.

“And thanks again for the books.”

Hannah sauntered in front of the car and up the walk to the front door. Travis's mind was racing. What could he say? “Maybe we can give you a ride again sometime.”

“Maybe,” Hannah said. She walked up the porch steps, gave a casual wave, and was gone.

Travis stared for a moment before shifting gears. Mechanically, he drove through the neighborhood until the car crossed the railroad tracks. Then he headed for home.

“What was all that about?”

“What do you mean?” Travis said. He hadn't heard a word, only the sound of his sister's most nosy tone.

“You're usually not that forward.”

“Oh, I didn't mean to be,” Travis said. “She just seemed nice. We have a lot in common.”

“Like what?”

“I like the classics as well.”

Rachel made a sound of disgust while rolling her eyes. “Okay, I'll remember that at Christmas this year. But you better be careful. You're not the one who would get in trouble. She may not think anything of it since they lived up North, but you know it's different down here.”

They made the rest of the short trip home in silence.

And she's tailor-made.

—Willie Brown

THE WORKWEEK'S ACTIVITY REVOLVED AROUND farming, commerce, and business, but Saturday afternoons were devoted to recreation. Although some fieldwork was done on those mornings, around noon the streets of Clarksdale began to fill with people prepared to enjoy themselves by partaking of the Delta's few pleasures. Coahoma County residents came to the county seat from all parts of the city and country to shop, visit, and relax for a few hours. By four o'clock, downtown Clarksdale was overflowing. And at no other time was the area's racial disparity more apparent. Two-thirds, even three-quarters, of the people in town were black.

Travis slept in late Saturday morning and did a few chores around the house after he got up. By two o'clock, he was ready to
venture downtown and see if anyone he knew might want to go to a movie.

“Bye, Mom,” he called as he headed out the door.

“Hold on,” his mother said. “I need you to get me a few things.”

Margaret handed him a slip of paper on which she had written a list of grocery items in perfect penmanship.

“Is that it?”

“That's it. Have a good time.”

Travis made his way to his favorite soda shop along the north end of Issaquena Avenue. On the southern end was the hub of Clarksdale's black business sector: Fourth and Issaquena streets was an intersection where, weekday mornings, day laborers waited for trucks coming from the plantations to pick up workers and, on weekends, folks socialized. Only one other Clarksdale corner was more famous: the intersection of highways 49 and 61, where young Robert Johnson was said to have made a pact with the Devil, trading his immortal soul for temporal virtuosity on the guitar. The Devil took his due when the wandering bluesman was twenty-eight.

Both Fourth and Issaquena were lined with small black-owned shops: a grocery, a cleaning and pressing shop, a soft drink stand, a cobbler's shop, a few eating establishments, a poolroom, and a barbershop. And Clarksdale had one amenity most towns didn't: a black-only movie theater.

Travis passed two police officers standing near a street corner. They acknowledged him with a nod.

“Mr. Crow coming out today?” Travis overheard one mutter to the other. Travis knew he was referring to the famous 1896 “separate but equal” doctrine, so named after a famous white minstrel popularized a song and dance routine in the 1820s that was originally performed by a stableman named Mr. Jim Crow in Louisville.

“He'll be out strolling today, no doubt,” the other said.

Travis came to a building with a large sign over the door that read “Saul's Retail.” He pushed open the door and walked into the only Jewish-owned store on Second Street. Saul Zlato's Russian accent was undiminished by a quarter-century in the American South. “What brings you to my store? Something for your mama?” he said to Travis.

Just then, however, Saul spied a new customer and politely excused himself. His father, a rabbi, had served as Saul's model for devoting attention to customers. Everyone who ever had a problem—Jews, Catholics, Protestants, and Greek Orthodox alike—came to see Rabbi Zlato for advice. Instead of selling salvation like his father, however, Saul sold an assortment of items from clothes and shoes to housewares and gardening tools. If he didn't have something in stock or if someone wanted a specialized piece of hardware or clothing they'd seen in a catalog, he'd order it for them.

Three customers later, Saul returned while Travis was picking through a barrel of hammers, screwdrivers, and pliers that were marked half off.

“You need some tools? I saw you looking at them. For you, half price.”

“They're already half off,” Travis said.

Saul let out a booming laugh, then once again looked to the door. This time Travis also turned and watched as Hannah and two of her friends walked into the store.

“Saul, I know them,” Travis said. “Can I wait on them?”

“I don't know, they shop with me almost every week. Are you sure you know what to do?”

“I've watched you a few times. I think I can manage.”

“What's our motto?”

“I don't care whether they're black or white, I'll take their green.”

“Yes, good. Okay, you are ready.”

Travis's legs felt wobbly as he walked toward Hannah and her two friends, an anxiety he was usually immune to. He noticed that all of her friends were dressed like Hannah: neatly, in laundered and pressed dresses that were newer than what most of Clarksdale's women wore. They were all members of Clarksdale's black elite, a small group whose members segregated themselves from others of their race through education, chastity or marital fidelity, a patriarchal family structure, and, sometimes, snobbery.

They were huddled near the women's shoes, Hannah's back to Travis. Her friends noticed him approaching but said nothing since they didn't know him.

“Good afternoon, ladies,” Travis said. “What can I help you with today?”

Hannah turned. Her quiet confidence mixed with a little surprise, she answered: “I'm fine, Travis. I didn't know you worked here, too?”

Travis grinned a little foolishly. “I don't. I was chatting with Saul when we saw you come in. He said I could wait on you, but not to scare you off since you're such good customers.”

Remembering her manners, Hannah said, “Travis, these are some friends of mine, Mary and Delia.”

“Good afternoon,” Travis said. They each responded with a nicety.

“I see you've already been shopping,” Travis said, noting each one's parcels.

“We started early today,” Delia said.

“What'd you buy?”

“Just some things to go with our dresses for tonight.”

“Special occasion?”

“We're attending an out-of-town party,” Mary said.

“That sounds like fun,” Travis said. “Where's the party?”

“Memphis,” Hannah said. “We're taking the train so we're very excited. But we have to be ready to go by four o'clock sharp.”

Travis glanced at his watch. “You don't have much time if you have to change and get down to the station.”

“We're heading home right now,” Hannah said. “But we wanted to stop by and check on Saul's shoes.”

“See anything you like?”

“No, not today. I think we have everything we need.”

“But I need to sell you something, or Saul will regret letting me help you.”

“Do y'all need anything?” Hannah asked her friends.

They shook their heads.

Hannah shrugged her shoulders as if to say sorry and reached over to a rack and picked out a pair of socks. “I'll take these,” she said.

He took them from her and they walked to the counter.

After Hannah paid, Saul placed the socks in a small bag and heartily expressed his thanks for her purchase as though it were a twenty-dollar dress made of the finest silk. To Saul, any amount of green was good.

The girls chorused good-bye in unison as Travis opened the door for them. “It was nice meeting you. Have fun tonight.”

Hannah took a few steps and then turned and walked back toward Travis. “There's a picnic next Saturday out at the old Stuart plantation. Why don't you come out and join us?”

“Us?”

“Meet me there around six. Do you know where it is?”

“Before I answer, I want you to remember that it's not the same in Clarksdale as it is in Philadelphia. We have a set of rules.”

“I know about those rules.”

“Sounds like I'll watch out for the both of us.”

“Six?”

“At the Stuart plantation.”

Travis was startled by her invitation, but he liked her directness. She certainly wasn't like most of the girls he knew. He wanted to
say something else, but Hannah was already four paces down the sidewalk by the time he could think of anything.

Travis turned to say good-bye to Saul.

“Bring your mama next time,” Saul said. “I'm getting some nice dresses in next week.”

“Okay, I'll tell Dad to bring her. Maybe she'll buy two.”

Lord, have mercy on my wicked soul.

—Son House

“I THINK THEY GOT HIM!” EMMETT WILSON CALLED out as he hung up the phone.

“Who?” Lewis Murphree said from his desk, where he was enjoying his morning coffee and reading the day's paper, checking it for errors and omissions.

“The killer,” Wilson said, rushing out of his office. “The one they've been looking for. If not, he knows a heck of a lot about the murders.”

“Hold on, hold on. What's his name?”

“Luke Williams. Some sharecropper.”

“Any more detail than that?”

“Not really. He came in late last night and started talking about the killings. Someone said he pretty much confessed to them all. Said he'd rather be in jail than having to keep killing folks.”