Faith's Reckoning, page 31
“The White House finally had to respond,” McLeod continued. “Attorney General Robert Kennedy negotiated with Governor Patterson of Alabama for the riders’ safe passage out of Alabama, but in Montgomery the police ignored the directive, again stepping aside while an angry mob of three hundred attacked the bus. Even the U.S. Marshalls couldn’t thwart the contagion that spread over the next days. Reverends Abernathy, Shuttlesworth and King converged on Montgomery to preach peace and persistence. After three days the Ride continued, escorted by Highway Patrols and National Guard, all the way to Jackson, Mississippi. But Robert Kennedy had made a bargain with the devil, meaning Governor Ross Barnett of Mississippi. As long as the governor assured the safety of the riders, he was free to arrest them once they arrived in Jackson. The riders were marched straight from the waiting rooms to the paddy wagons that took them to Parchman Farm. Incarceration in the state penitentiary for sixty days of hard labor was meant to send a tough message to the Freedom Riders. But it only galvanized the movement, expanding its reach. Those images of angry mobs on television just recruited more riders in a full-scale effort to fill Parchman Farm. It was that summer, in 1961, when I realized that the real hot bed of the civil rights movement was in Mississippi. James Meredith had just sued for admission to the Ole Miss.”
“So this was before Medgar Evers was shot.”
“Oh yeah, a couple of years before. The lunch counter sit-ins and boycotts had already forced Woolworth’s and Kress to desegregate the dining areas up North. The pressure was building down here, and it finally boiled over that summer when the bus carrying the first Freedom Riders was firebombed in Anniston.”
“When did you take the ride?” Sylvia asked.
“Not until August. By then people were headed to Jackson by bus, plane, and train. Parchman prison was filling up. I remember saying goodbye to my dad on the train platform in D.C. I was taking the Crescent to Greensboro, North Carolina to meet some students there for the bus ride. The Crescent was the same line he worked from New York to New Orleans as a Pullman porter. He said, ‘I’ll be riding with you in spirit, son, but this time we won’t be riding to serve. We’ll be riding for freedom.’ “
McLeod stopped to take a drink of his beer.
“It was during my sixty days at Parchman that I realized I was back home.”
Sylvia looked down, staring at her empty beer glass. She moved it in a slow circle, gliding it across the surface of condensed water that had collected on the bar.
“I was so insulated in our Dallas suburb, so caught up in my own world. I didn’t start to understand what was happening until I went to college,” she said.
McLeod got up from his stool and walked around to get them another beer.
“You want a fresh glass?” he asked. He looked at his watch. “Oh, my gosh, I’ve taken your whole day.”
She looked up to see his smile, open and friendly.
“Oh, no. I’m glad to be listening and learning so much,” she said, passing the empty glass to him. “Just another half, OK?”
“Sure,” he said, drawing them both a half glass of beer.
“So did you stay on in Mississippi after Parchman?” Sylvia asked.
“No, I went back to Washington, D.C. to continue my work at CORE, but Mississippi had worked its way into my blood. Maybe it was some latent memory of my early childhood or maybe it was the assassination of Medgar Evers, which turned Mississippi into Ground Zero of the civil rights movement. But a force kept tugging at me, pulling me back here. Freedom Summer in 1964 offered me the opportunity. A voter registration project had been launched in the South and hundreds of volunteers flocked to Mississippi to open freedom schools and community centers and to organize voter registration. When three of the first workers were murdered, I moved to Clarksdale. I’ve never really considered leaving Mississippi. Of course, it could be that it was because I met Nora that summer.”
“Nora?” Sylvia asked.
McLeod paused then went on in a quieter voice.
“Nora Davis, my…. wife. She’s a sociology professor at Fisk University.”
“In Nashville?’ Sylvia asked.
“Yes, it’s complicated,” McLeod replied. “Sylvia, I’ve spent my life prosecuting hate groups, fighting for desegregation of public facilities and integration of state workers. I worked with state politicians to change legislation even if I did feel I needed to take a shower afterwards. I must admit I have been driven in the fight for justice. It never ends. When I think I can’t take it anymore, I channel the rage into the blues. I tried to give my life to something, but I’m afraid it left me lacking as a husband and father. But that’s a story for another night.”
“I hope you will tell it to me someday,” Sylvia said. She ventured her next question carefully.
“Can I ask?” she hesitated. “Did you ever know the circumstances of Plessy’s injury?”
“Only vaguely,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. “I guess I was too young at the time for my parents to explain it to me. They just said some men beat him up. And once we left Mississippi, they never wanted to visit the place or the subject again. Except that time we came to see your grandparents after your uncle died. That’s when I remember meeting your Aunt Faith.”
“So her letter was the first you knew about what happened that night?”
“First time I knew there was a connection to the Wiggins.”
“She told me the whole story if you care to know more.”
“No, at least not right now. I’m not sure if you can understand, but it might make it worse.”
“Because no one ever paid for the crime?”
“It’s more than that. Sometimes, I guess most of the time, I think that if you didn’t grow up Black in the South, you’ll never be able to understand….”
Sylvia took a slow sip of her beer. She thought of Terrell and wondered if he was safe.
“You’re right. I have never had to face that level of violence, that hatred.”
She looked him in the eye, and he didn’t look away. She wanted to tell him about Antwan and Terrell, but it was getting late.
They finished their beers in silence.
McLeod put another ten-dollar bill on the counter.
“Shall we head back to the office?” he asked.
“Sure, then I should get on to the hotel. We can talk about the disposition of the estate in the morning before I leave town if you want.”
“Actually, I’m going to need some time to think about all of this, Sylvia.”
“You mean….”
“I mean I don’t know if I can accept the inheritance. It may have been Faith’s wish, but it feels loaded. And we haven’t really started that conversation about money and reparations.”
“Oh…. Okay,” she said, slipping off the barstool and reaching for her briefcase. Sylvia looked around the room as people started coming in and taking their seats.
“You looking for someone?” McLeod asked.
“Oh, I just thought Louise might be here.”
“Oh, she’s down at the Cajun Music Festival in Mamou, Louisiana. I’m headed there myself tomorrow.”
“Well, I guess I’m going to miss her this trip. She’s something, isn’t she?”
“Wiser than Solomon.”
The sun was just setting, fanning gold streaks across the western sky as they walked across the parking lot. At the car Sylvia paused before getting in. She rested her chin and arms on the convertible roof.
“How about this?” she said, “I’ll get the probate hearing rescheduled for October and come back for another visit a few days before. You can tell me what you have decided then. And we can have a longer conversation about money and reparations.”
“I would appreciate that,” McLeod replied.
His voice relaxed. “If you want to make it the second weekend in October you can hear me play at King Biscuit Blues Fest. It’s just across the river in Helena, half hour’s drive.”
“Really?”
“Louise will be there, dawn to dusk.”
“Where do I buy a ticket?”
“Well, it’s already sold out, but I think I can get you a pass,” McLeod said with a grin, “Now give me those keys.”
The trip to see McLeod in Mississippi had initially left Sylvia at loose ends. She had hoped to wrap up the disposition of Faith’s estate quickly and the uncertainty about McLeod’s decision weighed on her. On the other hand, she had enjoyed getting to know him and welcomed the chance to hear more of his story, not to mention hear him play at the King Biscuit Blues festival. A few days after returning to Austin, she finally summoned the nerve to have the conversation she had been avoiding with Joe. They had taken an afternoon walk along the upper reaches of Barton Creek, the water tumbling over large boulders as they talked.
“Joe, I need to talk about something that has been difficult to bring up.”
“Is this about kids, because…?” Joe began.
“It’s more than that,” she said, pausing.
“There’s no easy way to say this,” she began, taking a deep breath, “Joe, the reason I am certain about not having a baby is not because I am too old. It’s because I already have a son.”
He was stopped in his tracks, stunned. He couldn’t fathom that she had kept this from him; for over five years. She told him the story of Antwan, of being swept away by her first love; about her decision to give up Terrell because she couldn’t face an interracial marriage. Joe had listened, trying to understand why that precluded them having a family together. It didn’t make sense to him.
“I don’t think I am punishing myself,” Sylvia had said, “though I have wondered. The truth is, I want to find Terrell, if possible. That is, if he is willing to see me. He would be twenty-five years old now. This is something I must resolve, Joe. By myself. And as my love for you only deepens, I realize how much I want you to be able to raise the child you long for. You have wanted to be a father for as long as I have known you. And you will be a great one. It breaks my heart that I can’t give you that. But I can’t.”
He had protested that there had to be a way to figure this out, that he loved Sylvia more than his need for children. But the more they talked about it, the more the gravity of that decision weighed on them. Wouldn’t he resent her? Would it be his dying regret? As it would be hers if she didn’t find Terrell. Nothing was more important to her now. He had finally admitted how much he wanted a child. They had held each other and wept, still so in love but at an irreconcilable crossroads. They talked about taking a break so Joe could think about it all. On the slow walk home, they held hands, silent in their shared grief, the sun setting behind them. They both knew that once the break began it would be hard to find their way back to the life they had shared.
MISSISSIPPI 1999
Sylvia fished the safe deposit key from her pocket while she waited in line for the bank teller. She stared at it, running her thumb over the smooth round head. The upswell of grief swept over her again, but there was no resistance now.
“Good morning and welcome to First Charter Bank,” chirped the young woman behind the counter, “How may I help you?”
Looking at the tight smile, the blank gaze of the teller, Sylvia felt compassion rather than irritation. At least Sylvia had work that nourished her.
“I need to collect the contents of my aunt’s safety deposit box, her name is…. was, Faith Wiggins. It’s number 256. I am the executor of her will. Here is a copy of her will, power of attorney and death certificate.” She still found the transactional aspects of death jarring.
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” replied the young woman, her eyes softening, “Do you have the key?”
“Oh, yes, of course,” Sylvia said, sliding the key onto the counter.
“Just one minute,” the teller replied.
She disappeared into an adjoining room and returned with the bank’s copy of the key, then escorted Sylvia into the vault, flanked by rows of locked boxes on three walls. After retrieving box 256 she motioned Sylvia to an alcove at the back of the vault and left her to review the contents in private.
“Again, I am truly sorry for your loss,” she said, lightly touching Sylvia’s arm.
“Thank you.”
Sylvia slumped into her chair and closed her eyes for a moment. Barely middle of the day and she was ready for a nap. She took a deep breath, reviving some energy and opened the box. Inside was the original copy of the will, power of attorney and Faith’s birth certificate. There was a gold caduceus pendant in a small box and a gold cross on a matching chain. No other jewelry. At the bottom of the box was a card in an envelope with Sylvia’s name written in Faith’s distinct script. The card was clipped to two open-date first class airline tickets to Rome and five thousand dollars in cash. Sylvia opened the card. The message was simple.
‘Last I knew, God was living in Florence……Italy. Love, always, Faith.’
Sylvia closed her eyes. The card slipped from her hand onto the table. She knew that Faith had intended the tickets for her and Joe. The sting of his absence hit her, a phantom pain that was always present. She reached for the box of tissues that sat on the corner of the table. It was several minutes before Sylvia felt composed enough to leave the bank. She opened her briefcase and found her sunglasses. After transferring the contents of the safe deposit box into the briefcase, she closed it and walked out of the bank.
It was a warm fall day. She crossed the parking lot and slipped into the front seat of the Miata. The engine hummed when she turned the key. She enjoyed the fifteen-mile drive to Faith’s house, taking her time to behold the purple aster and goldenrod thriving in the fallow fields along the way. The probate hearing, rescheduled for October 25th, was still a week away. Sylvia had come to Mississippi early because she needed time alone to rest in a place that had been a sanctuary. But it was different this time. Faith’s absence was everywhere. In the dust gathered on the kitchen counter, the faded newspaper on the drive, the unharvested tomatoes in the garden weighing the plants to the ground.
Sylvia hadn’t seen Joe since the middle of August when they hiked the Barton Springs Greenbelt. There were lonely nights but there was also relief that she was no longer hiding the truth. She turned off the highway onto Faith’s driveway, pulling under the porte cochere minutes later. The comforting scent of lemon oil and old books greeted her as she entered the kitchen door. She still expected to hear Faith’s voice calling to her from the bedroom. Sylvia had a couple of hours before she needed to leave for Clarksdale. She and McLeod had agreed to meet for dinner that night and she had no idea what she would do if he refused the inheritance Faith had left him. She packed a small suitcase, then settled into the chair next to the bed. On the nightstand was a bible and a copy of The Miracle of Mindfulness by Thich Nhat Hanh.
Sylvia longed to talk to Faith about her spiritual journey one more time. Her aunt was so at ease reconciling such diverse religions. Sylvia recalled Faith’s instruction during those last days in hospice. ‘Just prioritize your spiritual life above all else and don’t let any dogma thwart you. Best to pick one path, one discipline, and pursue it deeply but I believe they all lead to the same Source.’ It seemed too simple, too easy in a way. Indeed, Sylvia was learning that meditation practice, while fruitful, was anything but easy.
She closed her eyes and let her attention rest on the rise and fall of her abdomen as she breathed in and out. For a minute she was just there, breathing, hearing the passing trill of a wren outside the open window, coming back to her breath, a slight breeze caressing her face then vanishing. Before she knew it, she was in an imaginary conversation with McLeod, anticipating his rejection of the estate. She caught her mind wandering and returned her focus to the breath but was lost in thought again within minutes, this time wondering what Joe was doing. She continued this meditation practice for thirty minutes, returning to the present moment and getting lost a dozen times. When she opened her eyes, she could feel her body was more relaxed.
She pushed up from the chair and walked through the kitchen and out the front door. The oaks to her left shimmered brilliant reds and golds, a light wind rustling the leaves. She picked up the harvesting basket that Faith kept on the front porch. The smell of fresh cut hay from the neighboring pasture greeted her as she made her way to the garden. Sylvia put the basket on the ground and took her time gathering the last of the tomatoes, peas and squash that hadn’t withered or dropped to the ground. She pulled up a few of the spent lettuce and spinach plants, long since gone to seed, but decided she would wait until after the probate hearing to put the garden to bed.
Sylvia picked up the basket and started back to the house when the splintered old peach tree caught her eye. She walked over to it and smiled at the sight of the new tree at its center which had grown a foot since last year.
“How can you not believe in God when there is resurrection all around?” she heard Faith whisper.
Sylvia smiled and replied out loud, as though her aunt was by her side.
“I’m working on it.”
She pulled into Clarksdale just as the sun set, splashing the sky with rich apricot hues. She turned left off Highway 49 onto Third street and found her way to Ray’s Ribs, parking on the street out front and hesitating a moment before opening the car door. No briefcase, she thought, just my pocketbook. Tonight was not a night for business, it was a night for listening. Despite the balmy evening she felt a little shiver as she walked up the sidewalk to Ray’s. A bell jingled as she opened the door.
“Welcome to Ray’s and seat yourself,” called the owner from behind the tall counter that separated the dining area from the kitchen, “Put your order on the line when you’re ready.”
The whole place seemed made of yellow pine – floors, walls, tables. Only the counter offered a contrast – corrugated tin on a wooden frame topped with red Formica. A clothesline ran from one end of the counter to the other with slips of paper attached by clothes pins. Sylvia took it all in, then saw McLeod wave to her from a corner table.
