TWENTY-TWO
When she wasn’t busing dishes at Frederick’s, Rosa was plotting her escape.
Formal education was of minimal interest to our little community of farmers back then. The town’s school had been run for years by Heidi Schlatt, who had watched several generations of children stumble through its doors. She believed that her role was more pastoral than strictly educational. More precisely, her job was to make sure that the children made it to the end of each day without hurting themselves, or anyone else, too seriously. On any given day, there might be thirty or so children milling around the schoolroom, ranging in age from five to sixteen. None of them really wanted to be there.
Except, that is, for Rosa.
Most children in the town stopped attending school as soon as they were old enough to start work or get married. My aunt had grown used to the sight of girls not much older than her, hunched over in exhaustion from long days helping in the fields and the burden of a household to run. Often they trudged through the town, wearily pushing baby carriages ahead of them. Rosa was determined not to suffer a similar fate. She continued to attend school every day, long after all her friends had stopped. By the time she was seventeen she had read every book in the (admittedly paltry) library, many of them twice. Each afternoon she brought an armful of books home with her and barricaded herself behind a fortress of words.
When my aunt looked up from the page, Jette would often be gazing silently across the yard toward the Leftkemeyers’ home. Rosa watched this wistful surveillance, wishing that her mother would turn around and notice
her
. But Jette’s eyes remained fixed on the house next door. This was a bitterness that my aunt had not expected: even in his absence, Joseph still eclipsed her. There was, Rosa concluded sadly, nothing left for her here.
In the spring of 1926, with Heidi Schlatt’s nervous assistance, Rosa secretly applied for a place as an undergraduate at the University of Missouri, Columbia. If her family no longer wanted her, she would seek out a different life somewhere else.
The day that her letter of acceptance arrived, Rosa did not know whether to laugh or cry. In the intervening months she had vacillated between hoping that she would get to go to university—and praying that she would never have to leave. She breathlessly read the short, formal paragraphs of congratulation, and immediately told herself that she wouldn’t go if Jette wanted her to stay.
Later that afternoon Rosa handed her mother the letter and watched her face as she read. Jette remained quite still. Finally she looked up.
“But, Rosa, why did you never say anything about this to me?”
“I didn’t know what you would think,” said Rosa quietly.
“But this is, this is—”
Jette stopped talking, and began to cry.
At the sight of her mother’s tears, Rosa’s heart flooded with relief. She smiled. “It’s all right, Mama. I’ve already decided. I won’t—”
“—this is
wonderful
.”
Rosa stared at her.
“University. You.” At this Jette began to cry again. “I’m so proud I could die.”
“So I should accept?” whispered Rosa.
Jette threw her arms around her. “Of
course
you should accept.” She squeezed her tightly. “This is the happiest day of my life.” Without Jette’s strong arms around her, Rosa might have collapsed to the floor in shocked dismay. She buried her face in her mother’s shoulder. Rosa and Jette clung to each other, their quiet sobs a tender duet. But my aunt’s tears were tears of sadness.
Rosa spent the rest of the summer hoping for evidence that Jette was at least a little sorry that she would soon be moving away. But my grandmother’s delight did not abate. If anything, as the start of the new term grew closer, her mood became even sunnier. She bought Rosa a brand-new trunk in which to pack her belongings. My aunt began to worry that she’d made a terrible mistake. At least while she was still in Beatrice, her mother could not forget her completely.
“Won’t you feel lonely here all by yourself?” she asked.
“Oh, don’t you worry about me,” answered Jette cheerfully. “I’ll keep myself busy. I’ve got Lomax to keep me company. And Joseph and Cora just next door.”
Rosa nodded sadly. That, she knew, was all that really mattered. She could be a million miles away, as long as Joseph was close.
The day of Rosa’s departure dawned bright and clear. The family gathered around the carriage to see her off. Rosa passed between them, kissing and hugging and weeping. Jette waited for her at the carriage door, the last in line to say good-bye. Rosa stopped in front of her. Their fingers touched, then laced tightly together.
“Mama,” whispered Rosa, “I don’t want to go.”
“I know,” said Jette, drawing her close.
Rosa could hardly breathe. “Should I stay?”
There was a long silence. Rosa closed her eyes as tightly as she could.
“No, my darling,” said Jette softly. “You should go.”
Rosa sniffed. “But I just want to stay here with you.”
“And do what? Wait for a husband to put you to work?”
“I could work in the restaurant.”
They looked at each other for a moment. Jette patted her arm and smiled at her. “Time to go,” she said. “It’s a long ride.” She kissed her on the cheek.
Rosa turned and climbed the steps into the waiting carriage. As the horses began to move slowly off down the street, she turned to watch all the people in the world that she knew and loved. Lomax called out something, but she could not make out the words over the noise of the clattering wheels. Joseph and Cora stood side by side, holding hands, watching her go. At the center of them all stood her mother, her arm raised in cheerful salute. The carriage turned the corner at the end of the street. Rosa slumped back in her seat, her cheeks wet with stunned tears.
Rosa looked out at the passing countryside, but all she could see was the joyful smile on Jette’s face as she had waved good-bye.
That smile had not lasted long. As the carriage vanished from view, Jette’s waving hand went to her face, and the tears she had been fighting back began to fall. She stood in the middle of the road and wept. She had lost Frederick, then Joseph, and now Rosa. And now she was alone.
There had been nothing in the world Jette had wanted more than for Rosa to stay, but she would not deny her daughter the chance to escape. Finally Lomax stepped forward and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. She allowed herself to be guided back inside.
After that, Jette’s gaze fell with increasing frequency on the house next door. Joseph’s angel wing still hung above the fireplace, a silent reminder of all that she would never be able to recapture now. My grandmother stared at the treacherous walls of her empty home, wondering how they had allowed her family to escape.
I
t was Lomax who rescued Jette from her sadness. Every evening he made his way to her house, and the two of them talked, long into the night. Lomax missed Rosa, too, and their shared loss created a new bond, transforming years of polite banter into a deeper friendship. For the first time, they began to speak about themselves, rather than simply the children. Jette told stories about her childhood in Hanover. She told him about her grandfather, watching military carnage unfold from the safety of his balloon. Lomax’s tales of growing up poor in New Orleans made her eyes shine with tears. Murderous German generals and children scrabbling around for forgotten lumps of coal in the squalor of the Third Ward—it was hard to imagine two more different people, but before long each came to rely on the other’s quiet companionship.
During this time Lomax’s illicit alcohol enterprise was booming. As word of his lethal concoction and its stupefying effect spread, demand began to outstrip supply, and he had to turn away customers from the alleyway. Sometimes there were fights. Men who had purchased bottles began to strike deals with those who had not been so lucky, selling their liquor on for an immediate profit. Lomax watched as his customers doubled their money by these quick resales, and decided to up his prices.
It was his first mistake. Born while the embers of the war fought for his freedom were still glowing across the country, Lomax had spent his life negotiating the perils of his black skin. He had survived thanks to his ability to spot trouble early, but he had grown too comfortable for his own good in our little town. His finely calibrated defense mechanisms had grown rusty. Men were prepared to pay Lomax for his liquor, but now they muttered angrily to each other as they waited in line in the shadows behind the restaurant. An uneasy standoff continued, until Lomax made his second mistake.
One of his regular customers had been out of town for several days, and had not heard about the price increase. On the first night of his return, he appeared, as he always did, with exact change for one bottle of brew. Lomax counted the man’s coins and calmly told him that he did not have enough. The matter might have ended there had he agreed to the man’s offer to pay him the balance next time, but he refused to extend any credit. Thirsty as he was, the man was not going to plead with a Negro in front of an audience, and he stormed away. Lomax watched him go, and then turned his attention to the next customer.
Two days later, the man came back.
J
ette and Lomax sat in front of the fire, picking through their childhoods, plundering memories. When the stories stopped, they sat in companionable silence.
“Thank you, Miss Jette,” said Lomax after a while.
“For what?”
“For letting me love your family like my own.”
“Well, love is a two-way street. You get as much as you give, don’t you think?”
“Yes indeed. I’m a lucky man. A
very
lucky man.” He stood up and stretched. “I just wanted to say, you know.”
Jette looked at him for a moment. “May I ask you a question?”
“You can always
ask
.”
“What’s your first name? The one your mother chose for you?”
Lomax chuckled. “Shoot, Miss Jette, I can hardly remember. Nobody’s used it since I was six years old. I been plain old Lomax for too long now to change back again.”
“I don’t want you to change anything. I’d just like to know.”
He stood there for a moment, considering the request. “It’s James.” The word escaped him like a sigh.
Jette tilted her head to one side. “James,” she said softly.
“Now promise me you won’t ever call me that.”
She smiled. “I promise.”
The only sound in the room was the warm crackling of the fire in the grate.
“Well, good night,” he said.
Jette got to her feet. She took Lomax’s hands in hers and kissed him on the cheek. They stood there, as still as statues in the flickering shadows of the fire. Then her fingers let him go, and without another word he pushed open the door and stepped out into the night.
It was cold beneath the winter stars, but Lomax scarcely noticed. The memory of Jette’s embrace protected him from the chill, warming him from within. He walked down the town’s empty streets, in no hurry to return to his lonely room. He turned toward the river. The moon’s pale reflection danced on the dark water as it rushed eastward into the Mississippi’s fierce embrace. From there the current turned south, all the way back to New Orleans. Lomax was glad that he was upriver now.
It was after midnight when he turned into the alleyway behind the restaurant, finally ready for sleep. He stopped when he saw the door hanging off its hinges. The wooden panels had been smashed repeatedly, splintered craters of violence. Lomax stood quite still and listened. No sound came from within. Then there was a soft whistle from the end of the alleyway.
There were ten of them, their faces hidden by scarves. Lomax stared into the row of eyes, trying to make out someone he knew, but all he could see were dark pools of hate. The pack approached, the dull scrape of their boots across the ground loaded with menace. Each man carried a weapon. He saw the clubs and brickbats, and the narrow flash of a silver blade in the moonlight.
He swallowed his fear and spoke. “Help you?”
“It’s time someone taught you a lesson, boy,” called a voice, high-pitched with excitement.
The alleyway was a dead end. There was nowhere to run. Finally one man stepped forward from the rest of the group. In his hands was an iron bar.
“What makes you think you can come to this town and rob us all blind?”
Lomax shook his head. “Didn’t rob nobody.”
The man snorted. “You parade about like you’re the goddamned king of England. You put up prices for your liquor and then you refuse to accept our money. But we’re proud men, see? No nigger’s going to treat us like that.”
“Proud men?” growled Lomax. “If you so proud, why won’t you show me your face? You scared I’ll come back and haunt you?”
The man did not answer, but took two steps closer. “We should’ve done this a long time ago,” he said, and then he swung the iron bar as hard as he could against Lomax’s knees.
I
t was three days before Lomax was found.
His naked body was hanging by the neck from the bough of an old cypress tree in the woods behind Jette’s house. His arms and legs had been broken too many times to count. The skin on his back was ripped open, a savage matrix of lacerations where he had been flogged before he died. Every one of his ribs had been smashed. His hands and feet had been hacked off and left to rot beneath the body. By the time he was found, they had been picked clean of flesh. His eyes and mouth were black with the swarm of insects.
News of the lynching electrified the town. Whispers swept through the streets like a chill wind. People swapped stories with their eyes cast low, wondering who knew more. When asked, Walford Scott, the police chief, muttered vaguely about ongoing investigations. Nobody was surprised when weeks passed and nothing happened. Not one clue was announced. Not one lead was pursued. The guilty men still walked free.
If the police had made any attempt to catch the men who had lynched Lomax, the gossipmongers would have been kept occupied for months. But inevitably, given the lack of new developments, the story went cold.