Mississippi Cotton (16 page)

“I was jus’ tryin’ to see if I had enough power to get it out far enough to not blow back.”

We turned off the highway onto the gravel driveway. We were almost home. I leaned against the spare tire and thought about the stories Big Trek had told us—about the University Grays, and about Andrew and Silas.

CHAPTER 12

We took a back road into town on our bikes in order to stay off Highway 49. The shortcut led into the square and the gazebo. We parked there. There were some boys throwing a baseball around. There had been a guy from Cotton City named Bobby Taylor who was a pretty good pitcher and even signed a professional contract. But he hurt his arm and never got out of the minors. They had put up a sign that read ‘Cotton City, Home of Bobby Taylor.’ He lived in Atlanta now, but the sign was still there.

“Hey boys,” Mr. Hightower called from across the street. “We goin’ fishin Sunday after church?”

He had just come out of the barber shop. His hair was slicked back with some good barber shop stuff, not Vitalis or Wildroot Cream Oil, but some real professional stuff. He was scratching the back of his neck where the little clipped hairs clung. The barber always tried to dust them away but could never get them all. I had had a haircut the day before I left Jackson, so I was safe for a couple of weeks.

“Yes, sir,” Taylor said. As soon as we got back from Clarksdale we had asked if we could go fishin’ Sunday afternoon with Mr. Hightower.

“Okay, we’ll take off right after church,” said Mr. Hightower. “I got a boat and I got an old buddy who’s got one. He wants to go, too. We’ll go down to Greenville. Get some big catfish. Sound good?”

“Yes, sir,” we replied in unison.

“Think we’ll really get some big ones, Mr. Hightower?” Casey said.

“Well, I hope so. But we gotta be careful, cats been known to eat boys under ten years old.”

Taylor and I smiled and kind of did a half-laugh, but Mr. Hightower didn’t smile. Taylor said, “Aww, c’mon.”

“I’m serious. I took some Cub Scouts, eight and nine years old down there last year. I told ‘em not to wade out. But they wouldn’t listen. Four of ‘em, whoosh! Gone. Catfish Cubbies.”

“What happened then?” Casey asked. He knew he was being kidded. Mr. Hightower hadn’t smiled yet, trying to keep up the front.

“Nothin’. We keep checkin’ the trot lines. They’ll prob’ly make Eagle Scout ‘fore we find ‘em.”

“Aww, not really,” Casey insisted.

Mr. Hightower very gently put his hat on so as not to mess up his nice, new slicked-down hair. He had coal black hair and although he wasn’t as old as my daddy or Cousin Trek, he had some grey bits of hair around his ears. “Well, how was Clarkdale? Y’all get Mr. Mayfield back all right?”

“He’s back, yes, sir. And it was fine. We ate dinner at Pete and Buger’s and hung around the John Deere place and everything,” Taylor said. “Daddy said he prob’ly needed to see you sometime today.” Taylor felt big, passing information.

“Yeah, we got lots to do before pickin’ time starts. I guess he’s at the house.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, I’ll see you boys later. I’ll tell your momma and daddy that we’re goin’ fishin’ Sunday afternoon for sure, Taylor.”

You could run out of stores to go to in Cotton City pretty fast. It wasn’t like Clarksdale or Greenville. Cotton City didn’t have a Woolworth’s, and for sure no Sears and Roebuck. We finally decided to go to the drugstore and look at some comic books. Maybe even get a Coke Cola.

We started across the street and got blown at by Mr. Siler from about three blocks away. We waved at him as we crossed just to let him know we had seen him. But he still stuck his head out of the window when he passed us about five minutes later. “You boys better watch out. You’re gonna get killed.”

Billy Joe O’Grady watched us cross the street. “Now, boys, don’t laugh at Mr. Siler. He don’t go fast enough to hurt anybody.”

“Yes, sir.” We all waved at Mr. O’Grady. He was the town marshal. We hadn’t noticed him standing on the sidewalk when we crossed.

He didn’t have a lot to do in Cotton City. Just break up a few checker arguments from time to time. He had two deputies, just so there was always somebody on duty all the time. Whoever was on duty at midnight had to turn the two stoplights onto blinking-caution. There was a rumor that he was one of the best backroom café domino players in town. I wondered how there could possibly be any gambling with the town marshal being a player.

Inside the drugstore, we hovered around the magazine rack, away from the counter and behind one of the aisles where you couldn’t be seen reading. It didn’t matter. Mr. and Mrs. Marks, who owned the store, didn’t seem to really care if we just read, as long as we didn’t take anything to eat over to the rack. I think somebody had dropped a banana split on Lois Lane’s face one time, and the chocolate syrup soaked in just right so it looked like Lex Luther had given her a black eye. That had brought an end to reading and eating.

“Look,” Casey said. “This month’s Captain Marvel is out.” We sat down on the floor. “Billy Batson’s about to get choked by a giant, weird-lookin’ guy,” said Casey. “He can’t say Shazam with the thing’s hands on his throat. He’ll get killed if he don’t say it so he can change to Captain Marvel.”

“I never did understand how a guy could get hit by lightnin’ and get help,” I said. “How come it doesn’t kill him?”

“Well, you’re just gettin’ what mother calls mature, Jake,” Taylor said. “You don’t go for that Captain Marvel kid stuff like Casey here.”

“I think, when you start lookin’ at girls the way Farley does, that’s mature. My mother said that Farley was maturing. It didn’t sound like she thought he didn’t like comic books anymore.”

Casey looked up. “You mean when you see progressed bosoms, you are maturing. So, progressed bosoms are more important than Captain Marvel? Now what kind of sense does that make?”

“You better not talk so loud about those things, or we’re gonna get in trouble,” Taylor said. “You jus’ wait and see, Big Mouth.”

The bell above the door rang and we heard Mr. O’Grady. He walked over to the counter where Mr. Marks and a couple of other men were.

“Well, Looty’s back home now,” Mr. O’Grady said.

“Did the sheriff find out anything?” asked Mr. Marks. “They have him there all night?”

“Yeah, most of it. Far as I know they didn’t find out anything. I was gone for a little bit. I had to do a couple of things.”

Casey stopped looking at Captain Marvel and looked at Taylor and me. We were all thinking the same thing, that maybe we weren’t supposed to hear what we were hearing.

I started to say something to Taylor but he put his fingers up to his lips, like to shush me. I guess he thought they would stop talking if they realized we were there.

“He didn’t act like he was worried or nothin’,” one of the men said.

“How do you know,” another said. “You weren’t there.”

“Well, that’s what Billy Joe said. Didn’t you, Billy Joe?”

“I just said he wasn’t nervous. He said he didn’t have his rifle anymore. He’d lost it, is what he said. But I told you I wasn’t there the whole time they were talkin’ to him.”

“How come the sheriff didn’t take him to the county jail?” someone asked.

“What for—can’t prove anything. Just because he shoots a .22 don’t necessarily mean anything. Lots of people have .22’s. You’d have to bring in half the squirrel hunters in the state.”

“He said he’d lost his rifle, huh?”

“That’s what he said. You deaf?”

The bell on the door rang again. Another customer came in. Taylor and I peeked over the top of the rack. Casey wasn’t quite tall enough. It was Mrs. Culpepper. She ran the beauty shop in town. The talk about Looty stopped.

“Well, good afternoon everybody. How are y’all doing? Sweatin’ like the fires of hell, I imagine.” I had heard my mother say one time that Mrs. Culpepper was as sweet as she could be, but a little rough around the edges. “I could use something cold like a Pabst Blue Ribbon Beer. But I’ll just bet you ain’t got none of them have you, Buleau,” she said to Mr. Marks. “Awfully hot out there.”

“Now, Eunice, don’t start with me,” Mr. Marks said. “If they ever legalize beer in Cotton City, you’ll be the first to know. And anyhow, I ain’t gonna sell it outta a drug store.”

“Why not? It’s a drug, ain’t it?”

“Never mind, Eunice.”

“Well, I need a bottle of Bayer Aspirin, and let’s see, what else…?”

We walked from behind the rack and climbed up on stools at the counter. After we came out, Mr. Marks said, “Why, hello boys, I didn’t notice y’all over there. What’re y’all gonna have?”

“A cherry Coke, please,” I said.

“Just water, please,” Taylor said.

“Lend me a nickel, Taylor,” Casey said.

“I ain’t lendin’ you a nickel. You got a nickel, I know.”

“Yeah, but I wanna buy this new Captain Marvel and all I got is a dime.”

“You got more than that. You made over a dollar just Tuesday.”

“Yeah, but I got it locked up at home.”

I was watching the grownups. They were silent and seemed to enjoy the negotiations between Taylor and Casey. Mr. Marks put my cherry Coke on the counter and leaned forward on his elbows, absorbed by my cousins.

“And a large bottle of hydrogen peroxide.” Mrs. Culpepper had just recalled another of her items.

Mr. Marks came from behind the counter. She could get things for herself, but he wandered through the store picking up some Bayer and peroxide.

“And,” she yelled at him across about three counters, “three boxes of bobbie pins!” He moved to another counter.

“Business must be good, Eunice,” Mr. O’Grady said. “All that hair fixin’ and stuff.”

“Well, I guess, if I can keep my damn drier fixed. One of ‘em keeps breakin’ down. Have to send it down to Cleveland to get fixed. You’d think I could find somebody in Cotton City that could fix it. I’d get my husband to fix it if he wasn’t dead.”

“Now, Eunice, careful, these boys don’t need to hear that kinda language,” Mr. O’Grady said.

“Oh, my goodness. I wasn’t payin’ attention. I’m sorry, sweetheart.” She looked at Casey. “I just got to blabbin’ and forgot myself.” She yelled to the back of the store, “Buleau! Give these boys a cherry Coke and put it on my bill.”

I hadn’t paid for my Coke yet, so I hoped she meant me, too. And I’d heard the word damn at least a million times mostly from some of Farley’s friends. Also I had read it in the Bible, but it still wasn’t to be said in front of children and ladies. Being rough around the edges may have disqualified Mrs. Culpepper as a lady, but I wasn’t sure.

“Thank you, Mrs. Culpepper,” Casey said. Taylor and I thanked her, too. I was still hoping she would notice I hadn’t paid for my drink yet.

She sat down at the counter and lit an Old Gold. “Well, I might just as well have a cup of coffee, Buleau. I don’t have no appointments ‘til four o’clock.”

“You know what, Mrs. Culpepper, I’ll bet old BB could fix your drier,” Taylor said. “He works pretty hard and he’s smart, too. He was goin’ to college if he hadn’t gone to Korea. He still might go.”

“Is that a fact,” one of the men said.

“Where’s he gonna go, young Mayfield? Is he gonna try and play football now?” Mr. O’Grady asked.

“Said he might go to that new Mississippi Vocational College in Itta Bena,” Taylor said.

“I don’t know if they have a football team,” Mr. O’Grady said. “He could’ve played in Florida if he hadn’t got shot and all. That Florida A&M got a dang good football program for colored boys. And that coach is like a Nigra Knute Rockne or something. What’s his name—Jack or Jake somebody or another?”

“They ain’t got a football team over at Itta Bena, I don’t imagine. Jus’ started the school last year,” Mr. Marks said. “But they’ll prob’ly git one up. It’s like he only wants to stay in Mississippi.”

“Well, let’s jus’ forget about the da—I mean, the football team for a minute. You think he can fix machinery?” Mrs. Culpepper said.

“I don’t know for sure,” Taylor said. “He jus’ seems pretty smart and all. And he’s always working on his tractor and stuff like that.”

She smushed her cigarette out in the ashtray and took a sip of coffee. There was a big red blob on the cup and on her cigarette. She must’ve had about six pounds of lipstick on. At least she did before she started smoking and coffee-ing.

“He jus’ got back from Korea, didn’t he?”

“Yes, ma’am. That’s where he got shot and all.”

“Well, next time you see him, you ask him if he can fix something as big as a hair drier. Tell him I’ll pay him a nice fee. Better’n sendin’ the da… dang thing to Cleveland.”

“I’ll bet he can fix it,” Casey said.

“Me, too,” I said.

“How long are you gonna be up here visitin’, Mr. Jake?” Mr. Marks asked.

“‘Bout another week or two. Then my mother and daddy are comin’ up to get me.”

“Where’s that brother of yours? Farley?”

“Oh, he’s got his driver’s license now, and he’ stayin’ in Jackson this time.”

Casey started slurping the cherry Coke out of the bottom of the glass. Taylor smacked him on the head. “Stop! That’s rude.” Everyone smiled.