When the Tide Ebbs: An epic 1930's love story (A Grave Encounter) (22 page)

I was gonna miss her something terrible, but Mama would’ve been proud of me. I’d said the scripture verses for
her
, and even though I hadn’t quoted verbatim, I found a strange comfort in the words that surpassed my understanding. Comfort in knowing Mama didn’t fear death, because she had an unshakeable faith—a faith that let her believe she was going to dwell in a place called The House of the Lord. Forever. It was a lot for me to take in. Would she have experienced that same level of comfort if she hadn’t believed in her heart that I’d one day join her there? I swallowed hard. She not only believed she was going, but she was convinced I’d follow her there.

I flinched. Mama didn’t know what I knew. I couldn’t join her, because I had to kill a fellow. Maybe God could forgive the Samaritan woman and my mama for their sins, but even with my limited knowledge of the Bible, I was confident if heaven was real, there’d be no murderers there.

I said farewell to Mama. I cried and made a promise to be back one day with a marble tombstone to replace the crude little cross.

I found a long stick and tied my clothes onto the end, slung it over my shoulder and headed for the railroad track. I had a mission to accomplish. I’d find Arnold Evers if it was the last thing I ever did. I worked odd jobs along the way, knocking on the back door of houses, exchanging labor for food. But I never accepted charity. I swept yards, chopped wood, mended fences. If there was nothing for me to do, I refused to eat their food. Since Dabney had said Arnold had relatives in Montgomery, Alabama, my goal was to get there and if my search proved unsuccessful, I’d work my way back upward.

The next seven months are a blur. I hardly remember leaving Oklahoma and arriving in Alabama. Dabney and I kept in touch. It was while working a short stint on a farm in Montgomery, that I received the following letter:

Dear Kiah,

Please excuse my hen-scratching but I ain’t had much practice at writing. I miss you and Fennie so much. I wish you could see the baby. She’s the spitting image of Zann. I’m still living with the Pruitt’s. Poor Mrs. Pruitt ain’t been herself since the funeral. She’s just about slam crazy. Sometimes I think she blames sweet little Alexandra for Zann’s death. The parson takes up time with the baby but Mrs. Pruitt can’t stand to look at her, so I keep the crib in my room.

Life ain’t easy for the parson with his wife half out of her wits. People in church are beginning to talk. Well, I don’t mean it to sound like everybody, because it ain’t. Most of the folks are real understanding, but a few women are stirring up a hornet’s nest, wanting to believe there’s hanky-panky going on with me living under the same roof with the parson. I’ve offered to move out, but he’s begged me to stay and take care of Alexandra. I don’t know what he’d do if I left. To be honest, it’d break my heart to have to leave my baby. Well, she ain’t my baby, I know, but I’ve become so attached to her and she’s attached to me.

I’m really in a pickle, Kiah. I wish you was here. I’m sending you little Alexandra’s picture. Ain’t she a doll? Well, I didn’t mean to unload on you like this, but I’m feeling a little weepy.

Write soon. Love,

Dabney

Chapter 19

I folded Dabney’s letter and stuck it in my shirt pocket. Mixed emotions stirred within me. One minute I was angry with Mrs. Pruitt for blaming an innocent baby for being born and the next minute I found myself guilty of the same offense.

It wasn’t fair to blame the kid, but neither did it seem fair for Arnold Evers’ child to take the place of the girl I loved. Why did Zann have to die? My pulse raced as I pulled the picture out of the envelope. I looked into the face of a miniature Zann and trembled. Suddenly, the baby was no longer Arnold’s child. She was Zann’s and she stole my heart, just the way her Mommy had done.

I sat down on an old stump and let seven months of bottled up tears flow from my eyes. I wanted to go back to Pivan Falls. Back to see Dabney and the baby. But I couldn’t. Not yet. I had to find Arnold Evers. For Zann’s sake. At least, I wanted to believe it was for her sake.

I didn’t mind farming, and would’ve stayed longer in Montgomery but I had a mission to accomplish, which wouldn’t allow me to rest. I received a month’s wages, hitched a ride with a trucker and rode to Huntsville, Alabama. There, I jumped the blinds, determined to search every town along the Southern Railway route until I found him. I’m not sure if I was driven by grief or hatred. All I know is that I searched every dive at each stop, and talked to anybody I could engage in a conversation, giving them Arnold’s description. It seemed as if he’d disappeared off the edge of the planet.

Little did I know when I hopped on the Southern Railway in March, 1931 in Chattanooga, Tennessee, that I was about to become a part of Alabama History because of an alleged crime that supposedly took place on the train. Nine colored boys, accused of raping a white girl later went to trial in Scottsboro, Alabama, and it was in all the papers. The trial was billed as “The Scottsboro Boys’ Case. I never believed they were guilty, though I couldn’t testify to the facts then, nor can I now. I believe the boys were in an adjoining boxcar when I hopped the train, but I could be wrong. Maybe they boarded later in Chattanooga. I gave little attention to the black dudes, since the object of my search was white.

I’m not sure what part of the state we were in at the time, but I do remember they were in the car when an old man boarded at Sheffield, Alabama. As the train pulled away, the elderly man with a long white beard, struggled to climb aboard. I reached down and gave him a hand. I couldn’t help feeling sorry for the old gent. He looked to be at least eighty years old. Of course, I suspected he was younger, and that a hard life had aged him beyond his years. His silver hair reached his shoulders but it was clean and neatly combed. He was small of stature—not more than five-feet five and I guessed his weight to be between 115 and 120 pounds. He wore a clean white shirt, though it was ragged and worn. His black slacks were a couple sizes too large. A thin rope ran through his belt loops, causing the oversized pants to gather around his waist. His wrinkled, leathery skin looked weather-beaten. But there was something weird about the old gentleman. Nothing I could point to specifically, yet he was different from the other hoboes I’d met on my trip. Did he have a family? Had he once led an affluent life, and after losing everything in the crash, now resorted to hopping trains in search of work? I imagined all sorts of scenarios.

“Where you headed?” I asked.

“Heb’n.” He said with a straight face. I tried hard not to chuckle. Perhaps like Mama, the old fellow had done gone loco.

“Did you say ‘Heaven?’” I smiled.

“Yep.”

Poor creature. He was obviously crazy as a bedbug. Not sure how to carry on a conversation with a loony, I mused, “Heaven, you say. And you think you’re on the right track?” I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing at the pun.

“Yep.” He plundered through his bindle, as he spoke. “Sonny, I’m on the right track, all right. There’s only one way to get there, and I’ve found the way.” He pulled a dog-eared Bible from the small bundle tied to the end of a stick. “Jesus says in the Good Book that He’s gone to prepare a place for me, and since He’s gone to prepare a place, He’ll come again for
me
, that where He is, I can be also.”

I smiled. “Says all that, does it?”

“Yep. That and much more. You can join us there, if you’re a mind to, ya know.”

My pulse raced. What did he mean by join “us?” Then I let out a deep breath, when it occurred to me that he was referring to him and Jesus. Of course. There was no way for him to know I had loved ones up there waiting for me.

I had a mental picture of Mama meeting him at the pearly gate, saying, “Sir, do you know my boy, Kiah? I s’pose he’ll be coming d’rectly.” I smiled. In spite of my ranting and raving to the contrary, Mama had been convinced that one day I’d see the light, as she put it. I blinked back a tear. I was lonely. The possibility of seeing Zann and Mama again made me want answers to questions I’d never before asked. Did I dare ask the old man? If Heaven was real, I didn’t want to be left behind.

The box car was crowded on the side toward the forward motion. The old man and I sat on the opposite end. I’d never met female hoboes before, but two girls whom I assumed were sisters were carrying on a bunch of foolishness with a herd of ruffians over in the corner. The raucous laughter soon turned into swearing. A fight broke out among a few white thugs and several black dudes.

With more energy than sense, I jumped up to join in. I got in one punch, when someone hit me over the back of the head with what I assumed was brass knuckles. I don’t know how long I was out, but when I came to, the fight was in full swing. I jumped up to finish what I started, but the old man grabbed me by the arm. He was stronger than he looked.

“Sonny, what breed o’ dog you got in that hunt?”

I looked at him and frowned. “No dog, I don’t reckon.” I rocked on my feet, dizzy from the blow to the head.

“Then let ‘em be, Hezekiah. Ain’t no sense in gettin’ yourself thrown off the train for something what ain’t no concern of yore’n.” He led me back to our little corner.

He was right. Becoming involved didn’t seem like such a smart idea, especially since I didn’t even know why they were fighting.

The old man pulled out a small sack of cracklin’s, which he shared with me. I liked the ol’ fellow. There was something about him, which demanded respect. As I listened, I discovered he wasn’t crazy, after all. His poor English belied his wisdom.

The train slowed, and four or five white guys were thrown from the train in Stevenson, Alabama. I got a glimpse of one of them. Arnold Evers? Could it be I’d been in the same box car with the grand rascal and didn’t even know it? I couldn’t be positive the fellow I saw was Arnold, but the notion haunted me. Was he one of the hoboes who boarded at Sheffield? Was it possible he was in the same car, only yards away and I’d been so amused by the old fellow that I failed to recognize him? Perhaps Arnold was the one who hit me from behind.

When the train came to a stop in Paint Rock, Alabama, the Bull walked up to the door, and demanded the nine colored boys step off the train. The old man fell asleep and I stayed hunched over in the corner next to him. If the Bull saw us, he pretended not to, for he didn’t throw us off.

I didn’t move, but I could see all the commotion from where I sat. Both of the white girls who’d been hoofing it up earlier with all the thugs, were now standing near a cop and putting on a show. I heard one of them say, “It was them colored boys who had their way with us, and we tried to fight ‘em off, but they wuz too many of ‘em.”

The cop grabbed the youngest boy by the collar. “That true boy?”

“Nahsuh, it ain’t so. We never touched them girls.”

The tall girl yelled, “Liar, liar.”

The nine frightened black boys all maintained an immoral act took place on the train, but insisted it was with one of the white guys, who was thrown off. Said it wasn't rape, but consensual.

No one wanted to believe them. But I did, even though I didn’t see what happened. There’d been something going on and now I believed more than ever that Arnold Evers was in the middle of it.

The cops were putting handcuffs on the boys, and questioning the Bull, when three hoboes slipped past and jumped in the boxcar. Two appeared to be seasoned vagabonds. The other, I could tell was new at jumping the blinds. We introduced ourselves. Hank and Coley maintained they were big-time gamblers. Judging from their shabby appearance and the fact they were riding in the boxcar, I presumed they were either liars or not very good at their profession. Posie, on the other hand was neat and clean. He was soft spoken and easy to talk to. Said he recently lost his job and was seeking employment.

That night I couldn’t sleep. For months, hatred drove me to hunt Arnold the way a wolf hunts its prey. He didn’t deserve to live and I’d be the one to see that he didn’t. So when I saw him rolling on the ground, why didn’t I jump from the train when it slowed—go back and do what I set out to do? I’d had the perfect chance.

I knew the answer. It was the old man. All his jabbering got to me. Killing Arnold no longer seemed to make sense. If the old fellow was right about a real place called Heaven—and he certainly seemed convinced—then did I really want to burn the bridges, which might help me find my way to Zann and Mama? I wasn’t ready to cross that bridge, yet, but I saw no need in destroying even a remote possibility that I might see them again one day.

After all, Mama, Zann, Dabney and now the old man all seemed positive such a place existed. Were they all crazy? Or was I? Then I remembered the strange closing in Zann’s farewell letter—“Until we meet again.” I hadn’t thought much about it until this moment. She was aware how adamantly I opposed anything having to do with Christianity. Yet, she didn’t say “if we meet,” but she used the word “until,” as if it were only a matter of time. Was it nothing more than a cliché? Wishful thinking, or evidence of her strong faith? Though she never preached to me, I didn’t doubt for a moment that she prayed for me.

The other three fellows didn’t seem to have a problem catching Z’s. Coley’s loud snoring could drown out a train whistle. I hurt too bad to sleep. My head throbbed as I stretched out on the floor of the box car. Sticky blood stuck to my fingers, when I ran them through my matted hair. I must have awakened the old man, for he raised up, folded a moth-eaten wool army blanket and gently placed it beneath my head.

“Thank you,” I whispered.

He nodded.

I was half-asleep when I heard him muttering something, which sounded rather peculiar. It was too dark in the boxcar for him to see how to read. Was he reciting poetry?

He was crouched over with his head resting on his knees, and his voice sounded soft and mellow. “For I was ahungered, and ye gave me meat; I was thirsty, and ye gave me drink: I was a stranger, and ye took me in. Naked, and ye clothed me: I was sick and ye visited me; I was in prison, and ye came unto me.”

I lifted my head slightly. I could only see his silhouette. “Say, what were you quoting? Something from Shakespeare?”

He didn’t move, neither did he answer my question. Instead, he continued to spout off strange sounding words in a low, monotone voice. I didn’t doubt the old fellow was harmless, but there was something about the way he acted that gave me the heebie-jeebies. “Say, mister, you okay? Can I get you something?” The moment the words slipped past, I realized how utterly ridiculous I must have sounded. I was on a moving train, for crying out loud. What could I get him?

He was a strange bird, but I was drawn to him from the moment I helped pull him onto the train. Maybe he’d had a stroke and couldn’t move. It was cold in the boxcar. I took the rolled up blanket, which he’d given me and spread it over his shoulders. He didn’t flinch. My heart raced.

“Are you sick?”

No answer.

I expected to get a rise out of him when I said, “I suppose you saw no reason to answer a stupid question when I asked if I could get you something, but I wasn’t thinking straight. You had me worried.”

Without lifting his head, he said, “Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.”

I couldn’t tell if his eyes were opened or closed. Maybe he was dreaming. I shrugged, laid my head down on the cold, hard floor and drifted off to sleep.

Hours later when I awoke, the old man was gone but his blanket was under my head and the remainder of the cracklin’s beside my bindle. What a kind ol’ soul he was. Every hobo has a story. What was his? I picked up the bag of cracklin’s and smiled at his generosity. This was all the food he had and he left it for me. But I sensed he’d given me much more than food for my body. He’d left me with food for my thoughts. I wasn’t ready to swallow all of it yet, but I’d been given something to chew on.

I raised up and stretched. “Where are we, Posie?”

“Next stop is Goat Hill, Alabama.”