Nobody Said Amen (28 page)

Percy pulled a kitchen chair close to the stove and folded his hands in his lap. “You didn’t do nothing wrong, James. You’re a young man, and you can’t do the remembering I can.” His eyes focused somewhere beyond the tiny kitchen. “Remembering covers a lot of years of wrong, James, and you didn’t do nothing to add to it.”

Rennie sat on the stool by the door, her eyes glued to her husband.

Percy said, “My first recalling’s of a mission room, Baptist probably, just south of Greenwood. I remember lots of children around, and hungry, being hungry a lot. And my name was Seven Williams.” He grimaced. “Didn’t have another name but Seven till I was tall enough to go to the fields on the Douglas place.”

Rennie wiped her glasses and chuckled. “And I remember when the man at the weighing machine said ‘You ain’t even seven years yet. How come you got Seven for a name, boy?’ And you said, ‘They told me at the mission house I was number seven child of Zeke Williams.’ And the weighing man said, ‘You look more like a Percy than a Seven,’ and he wrote it down.” She laughed. “Percy Williams! Who knew that name was gonna be mine one day!”

Percy didn’t join the laughter. “Wrong! Pitiful and wrong! Never knew my mother or my father? Never had a Christian name but Seven?” His voice was sharp and he looked at Jimmy. “Seven? That’s the kind of wrong goes way, way back, James.”

Rennie’s voice was soft. “Never meant to say otherwise, Percy.” She drew her stool closer. “Deacon and I shared a lot of trouble, Jimmy. We grew up together on the Douglas place. We saw a lynching before we was teens, right on the Douglas spread, Horton Tyler, and that poor boy was there for days before they cut him down.” She blew her nose and cleared her throat. “There was a whole lot of wrong, Jimmy. Between Percy and me, we had maybe three years of schooling, and that was when there was no work for us to do in the fields.”

“We were cheap picking machines, not worth teaching.” Percy’s gentle voice was cutting. “And that’s how Mr. Charlie wants it. He ain’t going to have us organize to change things. He’s got the politics in his pocket, and he’s got us in December, cold and hungry. It ain’t your fault, James. You made us all believe that we could change it, something we never believed before. And that’s not wrong. But till the politics change, walking out don’t matter.”

Luke was sure that ’68 was going to be as dismal as the year it was burying, as damp as the chill that seemed to settle in his shoulders and soul. The damn clock had moved his world into an endgame he couldn’t win. Every day of the past three months had showed him that. The torrential rain had drowned any hope he had for reviving the plantation. He stared at the darkening window, seeing only the endless highway he had been running up and down: the dripping motel signs, the canal-like roads, the near-empty hardware stores, the pathetic bars, and the closed faces. Tomorrow was the bank’s deadline, and his hands were still empty. It was time to tell Willy. . . . Way past time. He heard Willy’s ‘Sleep tight, darlin’s!’ as she tucked the boys into bed, and then footsteps as she moved to the stairs. Luke settled back in his armchair, his drink forgotten on the coffee table, and watched her descend. For the thousandth time, he marveled at those wonderful legs. Christ, it was like the first time he saw them at the cheerleading rehearsal at Shiloh High.

She saw him and smiled. “Why’re you sitting in the dark, darlin’? I’ve got something to show you. Turn on the lamp. We’ve heard from Dick Perkins. Wonderful news!”

Blinking in the sudden light, he took the letter from Willy’s hand.

Dec. 20, 1967

Gulfport, Mississippi

Dear Willy and Luke,

Merry Christmas! Hope this finds you and the boys well and that the rains have finally ceased. The Lord could provide an ark for Noah but not an ark for the Claybournes? No justice, and no rest for the wicked, Luke. Let’s hope for kinder weather in 1968, good friends.

Saying goodbye to you both was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. I’ve spent more than a decade of my life in the Delta, and the gift of your friendship helped make the transition from my life in Boulder so much happier. I did not expect to find that kind of intimate friendship again. I will always be grateful to you both. But I’ve become convinced that I have to move on with my life. The chapter of the Colorado carpetbagger is really finished, and the demonstration farm had ceased to be the challenge it once was. As I think you know, I felt I was treading water, and the world was moving out of reach. That’s why I headed to the coast, looking for something I could care deeply about again. I think I’ve found it. Time will tell.

Spending my first holiday season here on the casino Gulf Coast is a culture shock. A green Christmas here means your number’s been coming up and you’re doubling down on your bet! Not as homey as Shiloh or as snowy as Colorado, but fascinating all the same. The old farm already seems a lifetime ago.

I’ve bought an interest in the Silver Spoon Casino here in Gulfport and am planning on running a real Delta Blues room for the players, not immodestly to be called “Richard’s Rook.” I’m planning on coming up after New Year’s, eager to see you both and to renew acquaintance with your old friend, Nefertiti, Lucas. I have some plans that could include her if she’s free. The Rook will be a few steps more elegant than Fatback’s Platter, and if the blues are half as good as what we heard at Fatback’s, it will be a joy to run. Might even get you back on the dance floor, Willy. We’ve kept our fans waiting too long!

I’m working through the arcane politics necessary down here, trying to get a casino license in Mississippi. It’s a civics lesson I never learned in Colorado. (Never was taught the going price for a Mississippi congressman!) But there always seems to be a way for a born carpetbagger like me to find a place by the fire if the locals like what you’ve got in your carpetbag. So look for me in January and we’ll make plans to get you both to Gulfport as special guests of Richard’s Rook.

Happy holidays to all Claybournes, and warm wishes for a peaceful Christmas and a green New Year from your old neighbor.

Dick

When Luke raised his face from the letter it was flushed. He dropped the letter on the table and stared at his wife. “That’s wonderful news.”

Willy tilted her head, her brows furrowed. “Of course it is. Dick’s getting launched, it sounds like an exciting opportunity, and he wants us to come down to see it. Yes. I think that’s wonderful news. And I don’t understand why you don’t think so.”

He refilled his glass. “It’s been so long since I met good news, baby, I don’t think I’d recognize it.” His voice sounded bitter and hollow in the room. “Sit down and have a drink yourself. You may need it. We can drink a toast to our good friend on his wonderful news.”

When she settled down next to him on the couch, he filled a second glass with the bourbon. When she spoke, her voice was tight. “What is going on? You’re scaring me, darlin’.”

“Remember that loan I asked the bank for, for the next planting season, just so we could pull ourselves out of the hole this rotten weather has put us in?”

“Course I remember. You were going to see Roland Burroughs.”

“It’s about Burroughs.” He handed her the drink. “The son of a bitch turned me down.”

“Roland turned you down?”

“Oh, yes. In a heartbeat. Lectured me like I was a snot-nosed kid, not knowing how to manage. Told me I should’ve invested in mechanizing Claybourne’s stead of taking care of my niggers!”

“But it was his advice that made us buy the last five hundred acres! At our dinner table he said we were going to feed and clothe the world and get rich doing it. Right at our table he said that.”

“Well, now he’s pleading poverty. Can’t and won’t bail us out.”

“What does that mean? We need the loan till this weather breaks and we can get back to normal.”

“Normal.” Luke’s voice was desolate. He rose and walked across the room, leaning back on the bar. As his eyes found hers, she was startled to see how troubled they were. With difficulty, he cleared his throat. “There is no normal, Wil. I’m a cotton farmer. There’s being lucky and being unlucky. It was the drought for two years, and the floods last year and now. I can blame my luck, but it doesn’t help.” He met her eyes. “Wil, there’s not going to be a loan. And there’s not going to be a crop.”

“But there must be others—”

“I asked every planter I know from here almost to Memphis before I went to Burroughs. Didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of turning me down. But everyone’s in the same boat, and the boats are all sinking. Fore-closure is threatening at least a third of them, and we’re part of that third.”

“Foreclosure? Losing your daddy’s place? My, God, Luke, what are we going to do?”

“I’m going to have to get a job.”

“A job?” Willy paled and her voice trembled. She frowned as the words seemed to catch in her throat. “What kind of a job? All you know how to do is run a plantation.”

“I don’t know what else to do.” Luke’s words hung in the stale air of the late afternoon as he settled beside her on the couch. Willy’s arm tightened on his heavy shoulders. “For the first time in my life, Wil, I don’t know what to do.” His eyes searched hers, seeking an answer. “Ever since my meeting with Burroughs, I’ve been scouring the Delta, looking for something, anything. And all I’ve found is a lot of snickering. Claybournes been riding pretty high in the saddle for a hundred years, and some folks have a nose for blood.”

“Oh, you don’t deserve that.”

“It’s not a matter of deserving. It’s a matter of what I got to offer, and I don’t have much. The places that are hiring are looking for kids with college degrees who’ll work cheap. You remember, Wil, I was too smart to go to college, couldn’t wait to take over Claybourne’s.”

Tonelessly, she echoed, “Kids,” and stared, as if seeing him for the first time. “Our kids! My God, Alex is almost ready for college and Benny will be one day soon. What will we—?” She stopped as Luke took her in his arms.

“It’ll be all right, Willy. I heard that they’re hirin’ at Parchman, and I think I might be qualified.”

“Parchman Penitentiary? Doing what?”

“They’re hirin’ guards.” He felt her become rigid, and her voice became shrill.

“A guard? Luke, you can’t. . . . The abuse you’d take, the danger! Guards have gotten killed over there.” Abruptly, she pushed him away. “You can’t do that!”

“Now listen. I gotta take whatever I can get, and that’s what I think I can get. Besides, it’s safer now. They used to use prisoners they could trust to help guard, and that always caused trouble. It’s why they’re looking for guards.”

Willy was crying now, and her look was self-accusing. “If it wasn’t for me you would have gone to Ole Miss like your daddy wanted! A guard at Parchman Penitentiary. Dear Jesus!” Impatiently she brushed away the tears. “How do you know you can even get that?”

“I don’t. But I’m going in the morning for an interview, and everybody in Magnolia County knows who the Claybournes are. They know I can handle a gun and handle men, too.” He wiped away a lingering tear on her cheek and raised her chin. “Besides, I always knew you had an eye for a man in uniform!”

She moved into his arms. “Oh, darling, I am so sorry. I am so terribly sorry.”

When Jimmy heard the key in the lock he glanced at his watch and put down his newspaper. Bearing groceries, Eula burst into the room, then plumped them on the table and crossed to kiss her husband. “A long day,” she groaned. “Too long. And then I remembered we didn’t have the makin’s for supper. We have some cold beer on ice, which would be helpful.” She dropped on to the deep sofa and smiled for the first time. “Go make your woman happy.”

Jimmy crossed to the fridge and brought two frosty bottles, settling next to Eula. “You’re late, baby. I was beginning to get worried. Glad you’re home. I don’t cotton your hanging around Parchman a minute longer than you have to.”

“I know that. I’m sorry, darlin’, I just couldn’t get away a minute sooner. It’s been a real crazy day.”

He glanced at his wife. “Crazy how?” He grinned. “Somebody tryin’ to bust out of Parchman? That’s not new.”

“Nope.” She returned his smile. “Somebody tryin’ to bust in! An old friend of yours from the bad old days.”

“Say what? Who?”

She shifted so she could face him “Lucas Claybourne. I kid you not. Luke! He wants the guard job and I think I’m going to hire him.”

He stared, speechless. After finding his voice he exploded, “You are what? You’re going to hire that racist bastard? As what? Executioner?”

She burst out laughing. “Jimmy! Times change. This is not Shiloh in ’64. There’s a whole lot of history with me and the Claybournes.” She rose and walked toward the kitchen, picking up the groceries as she went. “We can talk about it at dinner, or it’ll be midnight by the time we eat. Executioner!” Her chuckle lingered in the room as he followed her, leaning against the door frame.

“Don’t humor me. I’d rather talk about Mr. Charlie and your long history with the Claybourne family.” His sarcasm made her turn.