Nobody Said Amen. Tracy Sugarman
ago when some outside agitators, like those three you just mentioned, came into Shiloh and shot up some Nigra homes in order to get money and publicity up North.” He snorted. “Worked, too. Gotta hand it to ’em. All the Yankee papers and networks were competin’ to see who could vilify us the most. And your magazine did a photograph essay showin’ those poor, mistreated darkies.” He pulled out a stapled sheaf of papers from a desk drawer and dropped it in front of Mendelsohn. “You’ll find it right on top. Just about broke your heart, Mendelsohn.”
“So the disappearance of those three civil rights kids was just an accident, Mr. Mayor? I’m real interested in the answer because I was with those boys just before they arrived in Mississippi, and my magazine, the one you save so carefully, is not interested in bullshit.”
“No. I don’t think their disappearance is an accident. I’m like J. Edgar Hoover who thinks they rushed off to Cuba so they can laugh at us. Mr. Hoover just bullshit too?”
“You shouldn’t ask that of a Washington reporter. So your quote is that there is no trouble to report?”
“That’s right. You can quote me. Mayor Roland Burroughs says there is no trouble in Shiloh, and we’re not going to stand for any bein’ brought here. Our Nigras are good people. We know them and they know us. There’s nothin’ these beatnik Freedom Riders can give them. They’re happy folks, Mendelsohn. And they sure as hell don’t want any trouble with the whites who they’re going to have to get along with after the beatniks go home. What are they doing down here, anyway?”
“They’re starting Freedom Schools to teach American history and black history and trying to register black voters.”
“Freedom Schools? Why, hell, we’re spendin’ more money on the Nigra education in Magnolia County than in the white schools!”
Mendelsohn hiked back in his chair and looked at him. “You believe that, Mayor Burroughs?’
“Sure I believe it. Everybody down here knows that.”
“Same folks who believe that Negroes are voting in Mississippi?”
“Damn straight! We’ve had Nigras voting in Shiloh for thirty-five years. Go ask your friend Senator Tildon. All his Nigras vote! Nigras who’ve voted all these years are fine folks. And we respect them. They know that these outside agitators are just stirring up trouble. Why, they’re embarrassed that white girls are sleepin’ over there in the Sanctified Quarter!” He rose abruptly and strode to the office door as the reporter gathered his notes and followed him. “There’s never any trouble from the Nigras in Shiloh, Mendelsohn. Tell your Jew magazine that.”
Mendelsohn met his eyes. “I’ll do that. And I can quote you on that?”
“Yeah, Lieutenant. B.U.R.R.O.U.G.H.S”
Jimmy Mack crossed the highway and followed a small tractor lane that led on to the Claybourne plantation, his mind filled with the images of last night at Sojourner Chapel, hearing still the crashing of glass, his thoughts racing to spread the word about the next meeting on Sunday. Urgent that the volunteers really get to know the community, and the folks get to know these white kids. Long as they’re here, everybody in Sanctified Quarter is open to the kind of violence that happened at Sojourner.
The path dipped through a stand of pine into a hollow where a tractor had gotten mired in the brackish water of a swamp. As he moved to circle the tractor, a large white man crawled out of the brush carrying a heavy chain that he had attached to a tree. Startled, Jimmy stopped abruptly, recognized the man, and stepped forward.
“Mr. Claybourne!”
The tall, heavyset man dropped the heavy chain and turned to stare at the intruder. “Yeah. I’m Claybourne. But who are you? And what in hell are you doing out here on my spread?”
“I’m Jimmy Mack, Mr. Claybourne. Nephew to Justin and Lottie Mack? Your tenants? Don’t suppose you’d remember me, but I used to pick here when I was still living in Shiloh.”
Claybourne leaned back on the crippled tractor, wiping his greasy hands on a rag, studying the young black. “No. I don’t remember you. Justin and Lottie are kin?”
“Yes, sir. Aunt and uncle. First time I met you was when you carried my aunt to the hospital over in Mound Bayou in ’59. I think it probably saved her life. Her appendix had burst when she was hauling a full bag to the weighing machine. They said you picked her up in your arms and toted her to the car. They still talk about it. I met you when you came to the house to see how my aunt was makin’ it.”
Claybourne smiled for the first time. “You remember that? They’re good folks, Lottie and Justin. Been working for the Claybourne place since I was a kid. You comin’ to visit?”
“Hope to. Like to see them again and meet some of their friends out here on the place.”
Claybourne’s eyes were suddenly attentive. “Why’d you want to do that, boy?”
Jimmy cleared his throat. “We’re havin’ a meeting over in the Sanctified Quarter on Sunday afternoon, right after Vespers. I want to tell them about it, urge them to come.”
Claybourne stood up, his hands on his hips. His voice was soft. “You a preacher, Jimmy?”
“No, sir. Hopin’ to get to college soon. But, no, sir. Not a preacher.”
“So it ain’t a church meetin’.” His voice rose and he stepped toward the young black. “Jesus, boy, are you one of those Freedom Riders? That kind of meetin’?”
Jimmy licked his lips, his mouth feeling suddenly dry. “It’s just a meetin’ to talk about voting, Mr. Claybourne.”
“You mean a Communist meetin’.”
“No, sir.” He stopped in mid-sentence as three black field workers came over the rise, halting in surprise.
Claybourne’s voice rose. “You want my workers to go to a Communist meeting!”
“No, sir. Not a Communist meeting, Mr. Claybourne. Only about five percent of the Negroes here in the Delta have ever voted.” His eyes moved to the three field workers. “Some of us think it’s time they did.”
Eyes averted, the men hurried past them now, nodding briefly to Claybourne.
“Some of you do, huh? Well, boy, you’ve got five minutes to get your black ass off my property. And those five minutes are a gift from Justin and Lottie. After five minutes I’m ringing up the Highway Patrol and reporting I’ve got an agitator here who’s disturbin’ my tenants. You don’t want to be here when they arrive.”
Jimmy Mack looked calmly at the furious man. “Do you figure that my leavin’ is gonna keep these folks from voting, Mr. Claybourne? Things have been changin’ since I got back from Korea. Lot of my buddies comin’ back want a piece of the action. They think they paid some dues. This voting thing is happening all over the South, not just in Shiloh.”
Claybourne thrust a thick finger against Jimmy’s chest. “It ain’t happening here, boy. Any of my Negroes go down to get registered will find their belongings out on the highway. Goes for Justin. Goes for Lottie. Goes for all of ’em. That’s a promise you can repeat over at the Sanctified Quarter.” He pulled a pocket watch from his jeans. “And you’ve got just three minutes left.”
Ted was talking with Jimmy Mack on the porch of the Freedom House when the old roadster pulled into the yard. The Model A Ford was packed solid. Three young men from the front and two from the rumble seat exited the car and stood uneasily, surveying the old farmhouse. Jimmy stepped into the yard and approached the group.
“Hi,” he said, “Can I help you?”
A lanky redhead moved forward. “This was the old Wheeler