Another Negro Dead
The two men remained at the porch mulling over the heinous crime they had committed. One of them happened to be my dad. The other was my uncle Jethro. The news was all over town. There was massive unrest spreading through the negro part of town. The secret was no secret anymore. Soon the Stockton county Sheriff will arrive at our farmland to arrest my dad and uncle. Until then, they had time to reflect on what they had done.
It was past supper time. Mom had cooked some beans with mashed potatoes and bread. Neither my dad or uncle had come inside to eat. Their meal sat on the dinner table getting cold. I, too, wasn’t eating. Mom wasn’t either; her meal lay untouched. I went and peered out the window and saw my dad leaning against the porch wall, while uncle Jethro sat beside him on the steps. They were staring at the rugged trail that snaked from the main road to our farmland. We lived in a shack three miles from Stockton. The evening weighted heavily that night. I knew something terrible was coming, but what I had no idea. I was a measly twelve years old, too little to comprehend their misdeed.
I returned to the table and picked up my spoon but still couldn’t make myself eat. My mom had a dismal, fearful look about herself. She looked afraid. The standing oil lamp cast a pale highlight on her face. I jumped down from my chair and made for the door.
“Don’t go out there, Bobby,” she said.
On other occasions, I would have responded, “Yes, mom,” and done as she asked. But not this time. I rubbed my hands against my khaki dungarees before opening the door.
Neither of them seemed aware of me when I came out onto the porch. I sat on a stool and swatted flies that danced around my head while I listened to them chatter. Uncle Jethro chugged on a bottle of moonshine in his hand. My dad lit himself a cigarette; the red tip illuminated his face each time he sucked on its end.
“You thinking they done found the dude’s body?” Uncle Jethro said.
“Likely,” my dad replied.
“You know we can make a run for it, Tom. Hop on my truck and bolt to Arkansas.”
“In that fucking crusted jalopy you got? That scrap won’t get us across the state line.”
“Hey, it’s better than nothing,” Uncle Jethro whined. He took a swallow from his bottle. “You don’t look worried.”
“What’s there to be worried about,” my dad blew smoke from his cigarette. “He’s just another dead nig — ”
“Yeah. Yeah, you’re right, Tom. Fucking-A, you’re right.” Uncle Jethro drank from his bottle. His voice quivered as he spoke. “Damn right you are about that. Just another dead ni — Oh God, Tom, we killed him! We fucking killed him!” he cried.
“Hush your mouth, you hear. The fool had it coming. I’d done warned him before, ain’t I?” my dad fell quiet as he smoked his cigarette. “Whatever happens next, fucking nigger had it coming.”
“But he ain’t have to die, Tom. He ain’t.”
“Maybe he ain’t, but nothing gone change that now. Just another nigger dead as far as I care.”
“We done took a life, Tom,” my uncle Jethro moaned. I could hear the pain in his voice. “There’s no washing our hands off that.”
He threw his moonshine bottle into the night. I flinched when I heard it shattered.
“Whatever’s coming,” he added, “we fucking deserve, man.”
Silence fell. I must have nodded off because my head suddenly lifted when I heard what sounded like sirens. Bright headlights cut through the night. I stood up from my stool and was breathing fast as two county police cars stopped in front of my house. My dad and uncle didn’t move a muscle. It was like they had resigned themselves already to their fate.
The front door flung open, and my mom spilled out carrying with her the oil lamp. She looked petrified as the Sheriff got out of his car, followed by his deputy from his. The deputy carried a shotgun in his hand; the Sheriff carefully approached our front porch.
“Hey there, Tom,” he acknowledged my dad, then my uncle, “hey, Jethro. You boys know what you’ve done, right?”
Uncle Jethro came to his feet. “We didn’t . . . I didn’t do anything, Sheriff.”
“Sure you did. You boys done killed a negro fellow. In cold fucking blood, I might add. There’s rioting going on in town right now. The black folks want you boys’ head, and I’m nearly inclined to give to them. But right now, I’m here to take you two in. Let’s do this nice and easy or else.”
My mom came forward. “Sheriff, please . . .”
“It’s all right, Sally,” my dad discarded his cigarette. “Sheriff’s here to do what he’s gotta do.” He looked at me and said, “You be a good boy and take care of your mom for me, will you? I’ll see you both soon.”
Except he didn’t. That was the last time I saw my dad. Months later, my mom and I packed up and left Stockton and never returned. My mom remarried, and we went on with our lives. Except the past never dies. That was the legacy I inherited.
My dad came down the porch steps and turned around with his hands behind his back. I came and stood beside my mom. I cried as I watched the deputy slap handcuffs on my dad’s wrists while the Sheriff did the same to my uncle still blubbering with tears as the Sheriff led him to the backseat of his vehicle then slammed the door shut. My dad sat in the backseat of the deputy’s car with barely a fight. The Sheriff muttered good night to my mom, then got into his vehicle and he and his deputy then drove away.
I turned to my mom. I watched her face crumble in distraught as she stood there holding the oil lamp while staring at the backlights of the Sheriff and his deputy’s car as they drove the way they had come.
“What did he do, mom?” I pulled at her skirt, still teary-eyed. “The black man, what did he do to dad? Was he a bad man?”
“Nothing,” she sniffled. “He did nothing. Don’t ever forget this night. Come, let’s go inside.”
