One Night in Mississippi (9 page)

Another man strode down the path towards us. He was wearing hard, polished boots, jeans, and a plain white T-shirt. His hair was straight and black and slicked back with oil. He lifted the stranger off the bench beside me and pushed him down onto the sidewalk. He asked questions that I could never quite make out, though the two men were right in front of me. He kicked the stranger in the ribs, then brought the hard black boots down twice on his head.

Others appeared, joining in on the attack. I tried to get up to help the stranger, but I couldn't move. I felt the ache in my crippled right hand, and it pinned me to the bench. Pain ripped down the scar on the back just as intensely as it had while it was being slammed over and over in the tailgate of the truck.

I listened to the cold crack of the stranger's skull against the pavement, the snapping of bones as the men mercilessly kicked and stamped on him. Their shoes and the hems of their pants were speckled with blood. The man on the ground never cried out, but always he reached for me, fingers outstretched in silent pleading. I never got up from the bench. Afterwards, one of the attackers would turn to me and smile.

The dreams would wake me in the middle of the night, but not with a jolt. I would arrive at a dulled state of half-consciousness and stare at the ceiling, disturbed and ashamed at the horrors of my own imagination.

“Again?” Anne would ask.

“It's OK,” I'd answer. “I'm OK. Go back to sleep.”

“You have to talk to me about this.”

“They're just dreams. There's nothing to talk about.”

They were not just dreams. I could never see the stranger's face, but I always knew who it was. And no matter how many nights I tried, I still could not protect my brother.

I rarely caught Anne in a still pose. She was manic with energy, always painting or cleaning or reorganizing her collections of books and albums. One afternoon I returned to her room during a break between lectures to find her reading a book on the bed, lying there in a casual pose that I immediately knew was false. There was a table to the right of the door, and she had set a postcard on it, poking off the edge of the table so that it could not be missed.

“It came for you today. I didn't read it.”

I believed her. She was nothing if not honest, but when she turned her attention back to her book, I knew she was also watching me as I read it. The postcard was from Etta. I don't know how she found me, and I don't know how many times I stood there and read it before Anne finally spoke.

“Is it from home?”

“I guess so.”

“What does that mean? I guess so?”

“I guess it means that I'm not really sure where ‘home' is.”

“That's such bullshit, Warren. I let you off on so many things, but you have to give me something. I mean, really, what do I even know about you? You never talk to me.”

“We talk all the time.”

“You know what I mean. We don't talk about
you!
”

There was an uncertainty in Anne's expression that I had never seen in her before. She was waiting for something from me that we both knew I couldn't give her. I stuffed the postcard into my jacket, my whole history crumpled up in my pocket. Anne slammed her book shut and walked out. I had fooled myself for a time, but new lives can never supersede the old.

The dreams came when she came and left when she left, as if they existed solely to haunt my happiness. She told me she didn't think we should keep seeing each other, and I was both relieved and lost. It was the only time in my life that I had allowed myself to want something, but there was a freedom, still, in letting her go.

I continued to study my lessons and pass my courses, but it was an unfeeling repetition. I was completing my work with aptitude, but not passion. Halfway through my final semester, I finally realized that attending college wasn't my dream or my goal. Just like the meetings I'd stood through in Townsend's barn and the voter rally I'd gone to in Jackson, I was trying to live my brother's life.

Graden had never set foot outside of Mississippi. He knew that there was a world beyond it, but it existed for him only as a concept. He would never wade into an ocean, or look over the edge of a cliff, or see the colours of the northern lights flickering in the night sky. He would never feel mud between his toes that wasn't Mississippi mud, taste water that wasn't Mississippi water, breathe air that wasn't Mississippi air. I told him once that he would never leave the state. It made me cringe to think of it, one of many regrets I had. Instead of Graden, I was the one seeing the country, and he was the one left behind. I was the one getting an education, and he was the one who never graduated. I was the one who was still alive, and he was the one buried in a shallow grave in the Mississippi clay. Nothing in life or death is deserved.

I packed a handful of clothes into the same duffel bag I had left Mississippi with and walked away. On my bed at the hostel, I left the records I'd collected in a crate with a note addressed to Anne. I doubt she ever got it, but I never knew for sure, and I preferred it that way.

I returned to campus only once, and that was for graduation. I stayed well back from the crowd, sitting in the shade of a massive oak, and watched the young men and women crossing the stage in their purple robes, their names called out one by one. At one point, I watched a thin black boy accept his diploma and shake hands with the chancellor. As the chancellor's watch glinted in the sunlight, the boy seemed to grow taller and heavier. His nose broadened and his eyes came alive, his features becoming Graden's features. Graden raised one hand over his head, proudly displaying the rolled-up piece of paper, beaming, confident, radiant. I stood, tears running down my cheeks, and clapped.

Amblan, 2008

I stepped out of
the cab and into the cold. I'd been here eleven years, and I still wasn't used to it, although I had learned how to brace myself for it each time. Taking that first punch of frozen air into the lungs and holding it, swallowing the shock of it and allowing it to disperse throughout the body before exhaling, so that the second breath had no teeth.

I cinched the collar of my jacket as the cab pulled away, and I shuffled along the sidewalk to Martin's Market. The chimes above the door jingled as I entered. I removed my cap and nodded to the owner.

“Mornin', Todd.”

“Mornin', Mr. Daniel.”

“Just stocking up, case I get shut in later this week. You reckon this storm's gonna hit like they say?”

“Well, weather's pretty easy to predict this time of year. It's gonna snow, and it's gonna be cold. It's all just a matter of how much.”

I smiled and picked up a grocery basket from the pile beside the door. I walked past the two aisles of hardware and cleaning products, past the breads and the slim selection of fresh fruit, and started stacking the basket with tins of stew, fish, and corn.

“See you got yourself a project going on up at your place,” I said. “What ya workin' on over there, anyway?”

Todd called his answer out over the aisle. “Wife's got me building a sunroom. You believe that? A sunroom. Shit.”

“Well, once a woman's got her mind set on something, there's no arguing with 'em.”

“You're sure right there, Mr. Daniel.”

Once the basket was half full, I loped to the checkout, struggling to lift it onto the counter. I emptied the contents then went back to fill it half full again. It was a small store and the selection was slim, but people here were loyal. In my third year here, a grocery chain opened a supermarket two streets over with wide, bright aisles stocked with every product anyone here could ever need, but few shoppers patronized it and within eight months the chain had closed up and moved out, leaving their brand new building behind. I placed the second load on the counter and rifled through my pockets to pay.

“That all? Hell, you gonna waste away to nothing.”

“I wish you'd tell that to ole doc. He wants me to lose twenty more pounds. Says it'd be good for my knees. I told him I'd just as soon lose the knees as lose the weight.”

Todd chuckled and packed the groceries into plastic bags.

“Well, if it gets rough in the next couple of days, I'll try and have one of the Hutches swing out and check on ya.”

“Much obliged, but I reckon I'll be just fine. Been through a lot worse than some bad weather to get this old, a lot worse. And I figure to keep getting older for a while yet.”

I winked and collected my groceries, listening to the chime as I pushed open the door and walked out into the street.

At home, I unpacked the grocery bags and placed the tins of food in the cupboard. There was laughter from the other room, an old
Cheers
repeat. I had been collecting food for the past week, and was now satisfied with the stack of canned meats and noodles that I had amassed. My first winter here I had paid no mind to warnings about the ferocity of the storms that could hit and spent six days without power, curled beneath every blanket I had and eating nothing but crackers and dry cereal until Jared Hutchinson showed up. He stood in the doorway with an armful of groceries and a knowing grin.

“Welcome to Amblan.” He walked into my kitchen like he owned it. I liked him right away.

He had parked his truck on the far side of the hill and hiked through the woods behind my house. He said it was easiest that way because my side of the hill faces the lake and gets far more deeply trenched in snow. He said places like mine are the ones the real estate agents always try to sell in the summer. He cut thick slabs of meat from a smoked ham and laughed without judgement when I told him what I'd paid. We ate sandwiches with cheese and pickles and drank beer from bottles slushed with ice in the necks. He left me with enough groceries to last a week or more, although the road was cleared after three more days.

I missed the intensity of the southern sun, some days so hot there was nothing to do but drink and sweat. I missed bread still warm from the oven and homemade macaroni and cheese and the greasy smear of pork rinds, but understanding how to prepare for them, I learned to love the winters here. The snow laid itself out thick and clean and sparkled brightly under the clear moon, the undersides of spruce and pine offering a rare hint of green. The air had a crisp quality and the cold imposed an honest harshness. Most of all, there was the quiet. There were no artificial sounds. A dog scratching through the frozen earth at the base of a tree. Curled and crippled leaves scuttling crablike across the newly fallen snow. The song of it, dry and haunting. A moose bellowing in the distance. And sometimes, no sound at all.

I mixed a can of soup with water from the kettle and sat down to watch television. I pulled a blanket across my waist and watched Sam and Henri compete for the phone numbers of a string of poofy-haired women. I ate the soup in big slurping spoonfuls, then set the bowl aside, and fell asleep in the chair, basking in the glow of the television set.

Amblan, 2008

I first noticed him
, sitting by himself at a corner table at Fryar's Grillhouse. His hat and boots looked newly bought, and I could tell from the sheen on the boots that he hadn't waterproofed them yet. His dark skin had blanched in the cold, turning his face an ashy grey. He kept his coat on while he looked at the menu, one hand holding it, one hand stuffed in his pocket. He put the menu down, checked how much money he had in his wallet, then looked at it again and made his choice. When the waitress arrived, he stiffened and sat further back in his chair, discreetly scanning the dining room. I looked away. Our eyes never met. He ordered a beef brisket with potatoes and peas, ate it in silence, paid his bill, and left.

I saw him again a few days later at the library, hunched over a microfiche reader, a pair of glasses set precariously on his nose, his head cocked forward at an odd angle so he could peer out of the bottom of the lenses. I approached the library desk.

“Morning, Mr. Daniel.”

“Mornin', Barb.”

“Your magazines are in.”

“Good news. Looks like it's going to be reading weather for a while.”

She pulled a stack of magazines from behind the desk.

“You know I don't mind getting these sent here, but I don't see why you don't just have these mailed to your house.”

“Well then, what excuse would I have to come in and see you?” I smiled at her, then nodded towards the microfiche area. “Who's the new fella, Barb? Haven't seen him around before.”

She looked around and seemed to notice the man for the first time.

“Don't know. He's come in a couple of times this week. Didn't catch a name. He just sits over there and reads old papers.”

I made a point of walking past the microfiche reader on my way out the door, but I couldn't make out what he was looking at. The man didn't look at me as I passed.

I didn't see him again for almost a week. Near the beginning of church service, Reverend Scott asked if there were any new or visiting members who would like to introduce themselves. He looked directly to the back of the church as he did so, smiling warmly, and I turned to follow his gaze. The black man sat in the back pew, at the edge closest to the door, and although several others had also turned to face him, he sat stone-like, as if in doing so he wouldn't be seen. After an awkward moment, Reverend Scott cleared his throat and continued with the service, still smiling, though less genuinely. I looked back again later in the service, but the man was gone.

I was already on my way to join the Hutch brothers who were sitting at the window table in the coffee shop when I noticed him again, this time sitting in the corner, his back to the wall, scribbling left-handed in a notebook.

“Earl.”

Jared Hutchinson had spotted me and was waving me over. The man in the corner looked up when Jared called my name and tucked the pad and pen away in a knapsack he had on the chair beside him.

I sat at the table with Jared and his older brother, Barry. Both stank of sweat and whiskey, which meant a day of ice-fishing. The waitress freshened up both their cups, then looked at me and hesitated. “I thought the doc said you wasn't supposed to have caffeine, Mr. Daniel.”

I turned the cup in front of me over, indicating that she fill it.

“I done outlived every doctor I ever had, and if this one's the doctor that finally sees me into the ground, it'll be with a stomach full of coffee and a liver full of rye.”

She filled the cup as the Hutch brothers laughed heartily, and I winked at her as she walked away. She stopped at the table in the corner, but the man covered his cup with his hand and declined a refill. I turned my attention back to the Hutches.

“Catch anything today?”

“Nothing worth keeping.” Barry snorted. “Sat in that damn lodge all morning and didn't haul up nothing hardly big enough to swallow the bait.”

Jared shook his head. “Probably don't help when you piss down the damn hole.”

“Well, hell, I ain't going out to whip out my pecker in the cold. I'm liable to piss right through that ice and have it break underneath me.”

“Well, pissing in that hut, you're likely to have some dumb fish mistake that little thing for a worm and jump right out the hole for a nibble.”

“Shit.”

Barry elbowed his brother playfully and looked at me. I glanced over my shoulder at the man in the corner, who in turn was staring out the window.

“Friend o' yours, Earl?”

I looked back, shook my head. “Just noticed him around, that's all.”

Jared turned to the corner, then turned back. “Yeah, I seen him here and there, showed up about a week ago, I think. He's staying at the McLarens' old place.”

“Know who he is?”

Jared shrugged, grabbed the sides of his chair, and hopped twice out away from the table, so that he was half-facing me and half-facing the other man.

“Hey, there. Name's Jared, this here is my brother Barry, and this is Earl.”

The man looked at Jared warily, like an animal backed against a wall. He nodded, and Jared continued.

“New to these parts?”

“Yes, sir.”

Jared pushed his brother on the shoulder. “Sir. Did you hear that? Sir. Now that's respect.” Both brothers chuckled, and Jared called back to the man in the corner, “Where you from?”

“Philadelphia.”

The man sipped his coffee, never taking his eyes off Jared. I thought I detected a southern accent, but it was faint if it was there at all.

“Whoo, that's a long ways. What brings you all the way up here?”

The man hesitated for a moment before answering. “Hunting trip.”

“Good huntin' up here,” Barry chipped in. “I had a couple tourists in last year, took 'em up to a spot I know. They bagged a bull moose the size of a small elephant. I grabbed one edge of his antlers and couldn't reach the other edge. You looking for a good place to stake out, you just let me know.”

“I appreciate the offer, but I'd just as soon stay on my own.”

Jared shrugged. “Suit yourself. Some of these woods can be a little tricky though. And, not meaning to offend a fella, but truth be told, you don't look like a woodsman to me.”

The man took another sip of coffee, then swirled the cup around once, looking at what remained. I thought that he looked at me, just once, and only briefly, before he put the cup down and answered.

“No offence taken. But some of us may be more than what we appear.”

He dropped some change on the table, picked up his knapsack, and walked out the door.