Have No Shame (3 page)

Corky cleared his throat, callin’ my thoughts away from my sister. He looked up at me, thick tufts of dark hair bobbin’ like springs atop his head as he nodded. I bristled at the schemin’ look in his brown eyes. He smirked in that cocky way that was so familiar that it was almost borin’. With muscles that threatened to burst through every t-shirt he owned, one would think he’d be as abrasive as sandpaper, but he was the quiet type—‘til somethin’ or someone shook his reins. He came from a typical Forrest Town farm family. His father was a farmer, like mine, but unlike Daddy, who saw some value in education, Corky’s father believed his son’s sole purpose was to work the farm. Everyone in town knew that when Corky’s daddy grew too old to farm, he would take over. Corky accepted his lot in life with a sense of proud entitlement. He saw no need for schoolin’ when a job was so readily provided for him. I swear Corky was more machine than man. He worked from dawn ‘til dusk on the farm, and still had the energy to show up here smellin’ like DDT, or hay, or lumber, or whatever they happen to be plantin’ or harvestin’ at the time, and stir up trouble with Jimmy Lee.

Corky took a long pull of his beer, eyein’ Jimmy Lee with a conspiratorial grin.

I tugged Jimmy Lee’s arm again, hopin’ he’d choose a walk with me over trouble with Corky, but I knew I was no match for a willin’ participant in his devious shenanigans. Jimmy Lee shrugged me off and locked eyes with Corky. Tucked in the alley behind the General Store, trouble could be found fifty feet in any direction. I bent forward and peered around the side of the old, wooden buildin’. At ten o’clock at night, the streets were dark, but not too dark to notice the colored boys across the street walkin’ at a fast pace with their heads down, hands shoved deep in their pockets. I recognized one of the boys from Daddy’s farm.
Please don’t let Jimmy Lee see them
. It was a futile hope, but I hoped just the same.

Jimmy Lee stretched. I craned my neck to look up at my handsome giant. Maggie called me Pixie. Although she and Jake both got Daddy’s genes when it came to height, I stopped growin’ at thirteen years old. While bein’ five foot two has minor advantages, like bein’ called a sweet nickname by my sister, I often felt like, and was treated as if, I were younger than my age.

Jimmy Lee set his beer down on the ground and wiped his hands on his jeans. “What’re those cotton pickers doin’ in town this late?” He smirked, shootin’ a nod at Corky.

“Jimmy Lee, don’t,” I pleaded, feelin’ kinda sick at the notion that he might go after those boys.

“Don’t? Whaddaya mean, don’t? This is what we do.” He looked at Corky and nodded.

“It’s just…” I turned away, then gathered the courage to say what was naggin’ to be said. “It’s just that, after findin’ Mr. Bingham’s body…it’s just not right, Jimmy Lee. Leave those boys alone.”

Jimmy Lee narrowed his eyes, put his arms on either side of me, and leaned into me. He kissed my forehead and ran his finger along my chin. “You let me worry about keepin’ the streets safe, and I’ll let you worry about—” he laughed. “Heck, worry about somethin’ else, I don’t know.”

Corky tossed his empty bottle into the grass and was on his feet, pumpin’ his fists. My heartbeat sped up.

“Jimmy Lee, please, just let ‘em be,” I begged. When he didn’t react, I tried another tactic and batted my eyelashes, pulled him close, and whispered in his ear, “Let’s go somewhere, just you and me.” I hated myself for usin’ my body as a negotiation point.

Jimmy Lee pulled away and I saw a momentary flash of consideration pass in his eyes. Then Corky slapped him on the back and that flash of consideration was gone, replaced with a darkness, a narrowin’ of his eyes that spoke too loudly of hate.

“Let’s get ‘em,” Corky said. The sleeves of his white t-shirt strained across his massive biceps. The five inches Jimmy Lee had on him seemed to disappear given the sheer volume of space Corky’s body took up. He was as thick and strong as a bull.

I jumped off the hood of the truck. “Jimmy Lee, you leave those boys alone.” I was surprised by my own vehemence. This was the stuff he did all the time, it wasn’t new. I was used to him scarin’ and beatin’ on the colored boys in our area. It was somethin’ that just
was.
But at that moment, all I could see in my mind was poor Byron Bingham.

Jimmy Lee looked at me for one beat too long. I thought I had him, that he’d give in and choose me over the fight. One second later, he turned to Jake and clapped his hands. “Let’s go, Jake. We’ve got some manners to teach those boys.”

“Don’t, Jake,” I begged. “Please, leave them alone!”

Jake looked nervously from me to Jimmy Lee. I knew he was decidin’ if it was safer to side with me, which would lead to instant ridicule by Jimmy Lee, but would keep him out of a fight, or side with Jimmy Lee, which would not only put him in Jimmy Lee’s favor, but also make his actions on par with our father’s beliefs. He’d happily fight for a few bonus points with Daddy to balance out his poor grades.

My hands trembled at the thought of those innocent boys bein’ hurt. “Jake, please,” I pleaded. “Don’t. Jimmy Lee—”

They were off, all three of them, stalkin’ their prey, movin’ swiftly out from behind the General Store and down the center of the empty street. Their eyes trained on the two boys. Jimmy Lee walked at a fast clip, clenchin’ and unclenchin’ his fists, his shoulders rounded forward like a bull readyin’ to charge.

I ran behind him, kickin’ dirt up beneath my feet, beggin’ him to stop. I screamed and pleaded until my throat was raw and my voice a tiny, frayed thread. The colored boys ran swift as deer, down an alley and toward the fields that ran parallel to Division Street, stealin’ quick, fear-filled glances over their shoulders—glances that cried out in desperation and left me feelin’ helpless and even culpable of what was yet to come.

Jimmy Lee, Jake, and Corky closed in on them like a sudden storm in the middle of the field. The grass swallowed their feet as they surrounded the boys like farmers herdin’ their flock.

“Get that son of a bitch!” Jimmy Lee commanded, pointin’ to the smaller of the two boys, Daddy’s farmhand. The whites of his eyes shone bright as lightnin’ against his charcoal skin.

Corky hooted and hollered into the night, “Yeeha! Let’s play, boys!”

Bile rose in my throat at the thought of what I knew Jimmy Lee would do to them, and I couldn’t help but wonder if he might take it as far as killin’ those boys—if even by accident. I stood in the field, shakin’ and cryin’, then fell to my knees thirty feet from where they were, beggin’ Jimmy Lee not to hurt them. Images of Mr. Bingham’s bloated and beaten body, his tongue swollen beyond recognition, seared like fire into my mind.

Jimmy Lee moved in on the tremblin’ boy. I was riveted to the coldness in his eyes. “No!” I screamed into the darkness. Jimmy Lee threw a glance my way, a scowl on his face. The smack of Jimmy Lee’s fist against the boy’s face brought me to my feet. When the boy cried out, agony filled my veins. I stumbled and ran as fast and hard as I could, and didn’t stop until I was safely around the side of the General Store, hidden from the shame of what they were doin’, hidden from the eyes that might find me in the night. There was no hidin’ from the guilt, shame, and disgust that followed me like a shadow. I sank to my knees and cried for those boys, for Mr. Bingham, and for the loss of my love for Jimmy Lee.

Every mornin’ began the same way. Before sunrise, Daddy would creep downstairs, listen to the weather on the radio, and walk softly into the kitchen. I’d lay in my bed, listenin’ to his mornin’ noises—the refrigerator door openin’ and closin’, a mug drawn from the cabinet, the sink water runnin’, the kettle settlin’ on the stove—and then, I’d roll over and fall back to sleep feelin’ the safety of his familiar rituals.

Mama and I were in the kitchen when Daddy came in from the fields. I swear he has a sixth sense, because every mornin’ he came inside just as breakfast was bein’ prepared. It wasn’t until years later that I learned that Daddy watched the sun, and when it had risen to just above the roof, he’d know it was time for breakfast. Today he patted my head, as he’d done every mornin’ for as far back as I could remember, and though I was too old to be patted, his touch brought comfort.

“Good mornin’, Pix,” he said. His tired eyes lit up at the smell of the warm eggs and hot, buttered biscuits. The deep lines that etched his forehead softened as he reached out and gently touched the small of Mama’s back, and whispered in her ear. She turned to face him, her eyes wide. Her hand flew to her gapin’ mouth. All of the color drained from Mama’s face.

“Mornin’ Daddy,” I said, watchin’ Mama press her lips into a tight line and rub her neck. I knew better than to ask for specific details of whatever they were wrestlin’ with, so I kept my question light; the kind of question Daddy didn’t mind answerin’. “Is everything okay?”

“Sure is,” he said. He washed his hands, then sat down at the table.

Mama set our plates on the table then wiped her hands on a dishcloth, removed the apron from her waist, and set it on the counter. Her fingers remained clenched around the fabric. She didn’t make a sound. She just stood there, one hand on the crumpled apron, the other coverin’ her eyes.

“Mama, aren’t you gonna eat?” I asked. I glanced out the window. Jake’s bicycle was already gone. He had class in an hour, and it was a long ride to school.

“Eat up, Pixie,” Daddy said.

Mama was a quiet woman who rarely let her opinions be known, and I was used to Daddy speakin’ in her place. I picked up my fork and swallowed my questions.

“Is Jake at class?” I asked, just to break the silence.

My father nodded, and shoved his third biscuit into his mouth, chewin’ fast. “He’s comin’ back early. We’re down one hand today. Some dumb boy got himself beat up.”

I put my fork down as my stomach lurched and twisted. “Who?” The smell of the river came back to me like a bad dream.

“I dunno. One of them coloreds.”

I set my napkin on the table and stared at him. “You don’t know who it is, but you know he’s missin’?”

My father glared at me. “Alison, know your place young lady.” He took a sip of his coffee. The tension in his cheeks softened. He reached out and patted my hand.  “Sorry, Pix. Albert Johns, if you must know. Why are you so interested?”

Albert Johns
. I repeated his name over and over in my mind. I could no longer listen to Daddy refer to the coloreds in town, or the ones who worked for him, as “them coloreds.” I’d been ignorin’ how Daddy’d spoken of them forever, as if they were invisible. But now, havin’ come face to face with a dead colored man, a man who I was sure had died at the hands of a white man, I could no longer pretend they didn’t matter. They were people. They had names, and families, and feelin’s, and thoughts.

I looked down. I’d overstepped that thin, gray line Daddy saw so clearly. “I’m just…it’s just…after what happened to Mr. Bingham, I just wanted to know his name.”

My father set down his fork and wiped his mouth with a napkin. I could feel Mama’s eyes on me from behind. “The boy isn’t dead, Pix, he’s beat up. Probably did somethin’ to deserve it.”

“Yes, sir,” I mumbled. “May I please be excused? I need to get ready to go to the library before Mama and I start bakin’ for the day.”

Daddy nodded. “Sure, Pix. Come over here and give your daddy a hug.”

“I’ll drive you in today, Alison.” Mama’s eyes were dark and serious.

“Okay,” I said, thankful that she’d saved me from what was sure to be an uncomfortable ride with Daddy—me holdin’ in my new feelin’s about the coloreds and him tryin’ to talk to me about marryin’ a boy I wasn’t sure I wanted to be marryin’. I wrapped my arms around Daddy’s neck. His earthy smell warmed me, his whiskers tickled my cheek.

“Are you sure, Hil?” Daddy only called Mama by her full name when they were in contention, which wasn’t often. She was always Hil, not Hillary. Her features softened as he spoke.

She nodded. “I have to go into town for some sugar anyway. I’m makin’ a cake for tonight’s Blue Bonnet meetin’ so we need more. Go get ready, Alison, and don’t forget your sweater. It’s gettin’ chilly.”

Mama drove faster than her usual careful pace, her left elbow rested on the open window, her fingers pressed firmly against her forehead. You’d think a small-framed blonde might look out of place drivin’ a beat up, old, pick-up truck. I always thought she made Daddy’s truck look better. Mama didn’t need to drive an expensive car to get noticed. People were drawn to her natural beauty. When it was warm out, she’d whip a scarf around the front of her hair, and tie it under the back, the scarf trailin’ down her back. The end result looked perfectly planned. Today her waves blew free.

She hadn’t said a word since we’d left home, and as we neared town I asked her if she was okay.

“Mm-hmm,” she answered, then forced a smile. “I’m fixin’ to stop at the drugstore first.”

As I wandered through the drugstore door behind Mama, I caught a whiff of Mr. Shire’s familiar aftershave. Ever since I was little, he’d worn Old Spice, a fragrance Daddy said smelled like a waste of good money. I loved the peppery-vanilla and warmed-wood smell. “Are you ready for your weddin’, Alison?” he asked. Mr. Shire reminded me of any generic grandfather; a sweet, gray-haired man who tsked at the ways of youth
these days
.

“Yes, sir, almost. I’m wearin’ Mama’s weddin’ dress, and the church is all set. We just have to coordinate who’s makin’ what for the reception. Thank you for askin’.” Thoughts of the weddin’ left an acrid taste in my mouth. I glanced at Mama as she shopped and contemplated talkin’ to her about my misgivin’s about Jimmy Lee, but I wasn’t sure she’d understand. My own father talked about his farmhands as though they were a commodity, not individual people, and she was married to him. I decided I’d better hold my tongue for a while.

Mama returned to the counter with an armful of bandages, bottles of antiseptic, and medicated creams.  She quickly slipped down the condiments aisle and returned with a bag of sugar.

“What’s all that for?” I asked.