Tribes of Time, page 3
“That your car?” Cyrus asked Haines as he slowed down.
“Yeah that’s it.” Haines answered.
“Pretty nice car you got there.”
The car was a cherry red 635 convertible BMW. It was Haines pride and joy, a gift too himself.
“That’s one of the German jobs ain’t it?” Cyrus asked as he backed his truck up to the grill of the car.
“Yeah, top of the line in luxury cars.” Haines responded with a smile.
“A car like that will definitely draw attention to a black man out c’here.” Cyrus said not knowing that Haines already knew that fact. Nonetheless, Haines responded to his question.
“I heard it may be a problem, I didn’t intend to stay in one town to long.” Haines got out of the truck and grabbed the tow cables. He wanted to hook it up, because if any damage was done he couldn’t blame anyone but himself. While Haines was hooking up the cable, Cyrus was keeping his eyes glued up and down the road. After the tow cables were in place, Haines motioned for Cyrus to begin moving.
“Where you want to go?”
“Are there any garages close by?” Haines asked.
“There’s Jenkin’s Auto Shop, but let’s take it to my place first.” Actually Cyrus didn’t really care where they took this man’s car; he just wanted to be away from the crime scene. The Ford Bronco in which the men pursued him in was still parked just off the road. Anyone passing would be sure to see it and the two automobiles close by. The hamlet of Ocelia with a population of only 5,500 residents; where everyone is either related in some way or another people was bound to recognize Cyrus’ truck.
“Okay we can check out to see what went wrong.” Haines responded. Both men got behind their respective wheels to head home.
CHAPTER 4
HOMESTEAD
E
lla Mae Davies was out back hanging out the days laundry humming her favorite hymn “when I wake in Glory” an inspirational song among Southern Blacks, “I shall fall a-sleep some day, and from earth shall pass away, but my soul shall reach a bet-ter land-” she hummed this song whenever she felt something amiss. She knew Cyrus was behind schedule in returning home, but she busied herself in case he had decided to go cat fishing for tonight’s supper. She returned to the house, but before entering she glanced down their lane for any sign of him; none. Ella Mae went back to her kitchen where she checked the pan of honey brown sweet cornbread, next she checked the pot of chitlins that she started cooking three hours earlier. Ella Mae was renowned for her colloquial cooking among the local black folks, she always won the church sponsored cook offs. Her recipes were handed down from generation to generation. Some say her Grandmother cooked for Confederate General Stonewall Jackson, but Ella Mae would always jest that it wasn’t so because she would have poisoned that hateful cracka. Ella Mae sat down at the kitchen table to peel some sweet potatoes, but her mind was not on them. She kept replaying all scenarios of what could have happened to her husband. Her thoughts were broken when the oven timer went off. As she was removing the pan from the oven, she heard the familiar sound of Cyrus’ truck. She quickly placed the pan of cornbread on the counter to cool. She walked towards the back door nervously wiping her hands in her apron. She felt nervous at the fact that if Cyrus had gone fishing he wouldn’t be home so early, so she realized something had gone wrong. While she stood in the door she could see that he was towing a car into their driveway. Her mind rested a bit, Cyrus was always a Good Samaritan and would stop to help anyone. She hoped this was the only reason he was late in returning. But as Cyrus got closer she could see the expression and swelling in his face, she knew something was terribly wrong. After twenty-eight years of marriage he really need not articulate, his face spoke for him. As both of the vehicles lurched to a halt with a light haze of dust rising, Ella Mae said.
“How comes you so late Cyrus?” He looked at her as if she could see why he taken so long. After all, he did have someone neither of them knew in tow.
“This fella had some problems down yonder a ways.” Ella Mae continued to watch as the men unhitched Haines’ car, and popped the hood. She realized Cyrus had on different clothes than when he left that morning. “Cyrus” she half whispered.
“Yeah, Ella cain’t you sees I’m busy.”
“Can you come over here a minute; I needs to ask you something”
“I’ll be there in a minute Ella.”
Ella Mae walked through the kitchen and into the sitting room, and sat in her favorite chair. Cyrus had one a little larger right next to hers. She picked up her Bible and cradled it in her arms and began to hum her hymn again. She heard the back screen door creak and then a slight slam. Cyrus proceeded to the sitting room where Ella Mae was waiting.
“What’s so important that it couldn’t wait, cain’t you see we have a guest?” Ella Mae studied her husband; he knew she didn’t recognize the clothes.
“I got grease on them helping the man outside, so he loaned me some clothes.”
“Now Cyrus, you’ve never been afraid of no grease on your clothes. You best be telling the truth, you know the Law’d don’t take kindly to liars.” They could hear Haines through the open window trying to crank his car; it started with very little resistance, but would not move.
“You explained how you got them clothes; now explain how’se you got all swoll up?” Cyrus failed to remember in all the commotion that his face had been beaten. He had taken time to wash some of the blood away, but the swelling was still prominent around his brows and upper lip. Cyrus looked out the window in the direction of Haines trying to find the words to easily break it to his wife, when she interrupted. “You mean he whupped you like that, is dat why you helped him?”
“I wished it was that simple, I really do. Please Ella, give me some time to think and I’ll tell you everything. Right now I gots to get this man going.” Haines was fumbling under the hood looking at all the intricate electrical work that German automobiles are notorious for, when he discovered the mechanical malfunction that stranded him and eventually enveloped him in a quagmire. The serpentine belt had snapped. He continued to search under the hood but not really looking for anything, he was trying to look busy as not to draw the attention of those inside. Haines was actually attempting to hear their conversation; he was a little concerned they may call someone and tell them of his and Cyrus’ deed.
“I understand he wants to be on his way, but if he’s making you help him, we need to call the Sheriff.”
“No!” Cyrus involuntarily yelled. The outburst startled Haines from his leaning post on the car outside.
“I mean there ain’t no need for that, I told you he didn’t whup me. I’ll tell you the whole story later. That’s the end for now.” Cyrus said his final piece and walked out the door, ignoring the usual courtesy of not letting the screen door slam. Ella Mae was beside herself with worry. Never in the course of their marriage had Cyrus reacted in this manner towards her; and she knew it had something to do with the stranger in her yard.
“Did you find the problem?” Cyrus asked while stepping off the porch. Cyrus is what you would call a backyard mechanic, he could fix just about anything. He never had any formal schooling in mechanics; sometimes he would chuckle to himself as he drove by service stations and see people trusting these so-called Certified Mechanics. He would tell Ella Mae that to be certified all it took was three eight hour classes. “Yeah it’s a belt, you wouldn’t know where I could get one?” Haines said while still looking under the hood absent-mindedly. “Well…..let’s see now.” Cyrus said while stroking the sparse growth on his chin.
“Yeah we can go into town after we get cleaned up a little bit, there’s an auto mechanics store on Beaver Street & Commonwealth Ave.”
“Okay that sounds good.” Haines actually wanted Cyrus to offer him some of the delicious food he smelled since his arrival. Haines closed the hood of the car and both men proceeded towards the house. “You done ate something today?” Cyrus asked Haines, he was also famished from the day’s events. “No, I was just admiring the aroma of your wife’s cooking.”
Once inside the back door Haines looked for some hint of personality of these people. You can tell a lot about individuals by their home décor. The kitchen had the aura of a down home southern cottage. In the hallway sat a stand with a white ceramic wash bowl and pitcher, a decorative antique piece Haines thought. He scanned the walls for the customary images indicative of most black families; he saw one of Martin Luther King, Jr giving his speech at the Lincoln Memorial. His personal idol was Charles Latimer the engineer. “This is my wife Ella Mae, Ella this is Haines Johnson.”
“Nice too meet you suh, how comes you hanging with this ‘ol coot?” She said breaking the awkwardness of the introduction, but her apprehension was still evident in her body language.
“Nice to meet you too Ma’am.” Haines replied with his hand extended. Cyrus walked over to the stove and lifted the lid on the largest pot; the steam billowed around his face. Ella Mae swatted at him with her towel, “now you knows I don’t allow people to be putting’ They’se nose over my food.” Cyrus feigned to cower at his wife’s gesture.
“Did Shelton call yet?” Haines thought this would be an excellent time to interject. “How many children do you have?” as he switched his gaze from one to the other.
“We have two boys, the eldest is Shelton and our youngest is Mychal.” Haines was to career-oriented to have settled down to a devoted family life, at times he regrets the fact.
“Shelton’s down at Jackson State University.” Haines wondered how this simple couple afforded to send their son to college. Jackson State is a Historically Black College with few scholarship opportunities based upon race, unless you were other than African-American.
“What’s he studying?” Haines inquired.
“He says he wants to be a Scientist of some sort.” Ella said with a smile of motherly pride.
“I’m a Scientist, a Physicist to be exact. If he needs any advice I’d be glad to assist.”
“I was wondering why you spoke so proper, where you from originally?” Cyrus asked Haines.
“I’m from Lochapocha Alabama outside Montgomery; it’s a small town similar to this one.” It had been ages since Haines returned to his home town; his parents were both deceased and his siblings relocated up north. “Well, as soon as we get cleaned up we can sit down to some supper. Do you eat chitlins?” Ella Mae asked Haines. “I grew up on chitlins and the whole nine yards, don’t ask me to clean them though.” Everyone shared a hearty laugh; the visible tension appeared to be slowly dissipating, but only by appearances.
CHAPTER 5
ACRIMONY
D
riving into downtown Ocelia is always a pleasant experience on the exterior. The epicenter of activity revolves around Hemmings Park. At any given time, the ornate iron benches are occupied by the elder townsfolk, gossiping and feeding the fox squirrels. While women strolled around in various colored sun dresses planning the next Sunday social bazaar, occasionally they’ll be trailed by an Au Pair dressed in a white uniform pushing a carriage or dragging an uncooperative charge. The bronze statue of Arnis Hemming looms over the man made pond, he’s always being assaulted by nesting pigeons or a wayward seagull, and white streaks mark his numerous dive bombings attacks. Proceeding down Main Street one will see Sleepy’s Confectionary, the Post Office and General Mercantile which sells everything from Horehound candy to lawnmowers. Across the street sat Vernon Hutchison’s office, the Sheriff of Ocelia. He could usually be found sitting in front of Walter’s Barbershop chewing Red Man tobacco and polishing his leather boots.
The conversations down at Walter’s is usually easy-going, but today since Clara Miller called saying her husband hadn’t been seen since 8:30 that morning; it was abuzz with conjecture and speculation. Sheriff Vernon is also the Imperial Wizard of the region and his compatriots knew he sent Cecil and the boy’s out on a mission to set ‘ole Cyrus straight for the perceived indignation towards a white man. Many in town also knew Vernon had sent them out to waylay Cyrus on his route home and to make an example of him for the other area nigra’s that might be getting uppity. Vernon was standing with one foot over the end of a bench with his elbow resting on that knee. He was an imposing figure if nothing else. He was barreled chested, stood approximately 6’4” and had a taut midsection. He’s usually wearing a short sleeved white buttoned down shirt with the badge pinned on the left chest and khaki colored chino pants with black cowboy boots; sitting askew on his head is a white Stetson cowboy hat with a dark band. To hear Vernon’s explanation of what type of skin it was made of is circumspect, but truth is never far from fiction. Vernon claims it’s made from the skin of a nigra he killed when he was 12 years old, and his father made he and his brother flay the skin from the back of that nigra while he was still alive to teach him a lesson; for not down turning his eyes when he passed white folks.
On any given Sunday, Vernon could usually be found somewhere in the town square pontificating in his bravura of southern colloquialism about how his family was the largest brokers and importers of chattel slaves along the entire eastern seaboard. History reveals that all came to an end during the Reconstruction period, when his forbearers lost their fortune and status. The family then transitioned into regulating for the Union Army to ease the pacification of die-hard Confederates and Secessionist; and eventually into law enforcement. The Hutchison’s never regained the financial security or their status within the Southern Aristocracy, but gained political clout due to their positions in the local government as Judges, Attorneys and Chiefs of Police or Sheriffs. While in these appointments they intimidated the newly freed slaves into remaining at their positions of involuntary servitude. Those that were in a position to be policy and law makers created a fraudulent legal system of vagrancy laws specifically aimed at the slaves, arresting them for minor or nondescript offenses. The arrestees were then convicted in a kangaroo court; many if not all could not afford to pay the fines. The Magistrate would then allow a white plantation or business owner to pay the fine for the convicted; additionally, it was legally stipulated by the Magistrate that the white benefactor had the right to discipline the convict by any means he felt necessary. This Neo-slavery system continued throughout the south for approximately 115 years after the Emancipation Proclamation. Area records indicate over one hundred and fifty thousand African Americans were arrested and convicted under this system in the tri-state area of Tennessee, Alabama and Georgia. Many died while in servitude or served minimum sentences of 30 years for mundane offenses such as not having five dollars in their pockets or being unemployed within the city limits; which was legal since the implementation of the Vagrancy laws, thus slavery continued and the slave owners earned revenue from their slaves being leased to construction crews, the state for any type of menial labor they needed for a quarter of the wages paid to white journeymen.
Vernon’s a prodigy and benefactor of this penonage system, and is steeped in the lore and mysticism of his family’s legacy. Since he was a young lad Vernon romanticized about being the lord of his own plantation; overseeing a large population of chattel slaves. He came up through the ranks of the Sheriff’s office rather quickly, which was not a surprise to many since his grandfather and father were the Sheriff and Under Sheriff. He learned this caste system from those who helped create it and he used it with impunity. He personally paid the bail for a hundred inmates and leased them out to businesses or small farmers; he received a seventy-five percent return on his investment and was not personally responsible for housing or feeding them. Like his forbearers, his world crashed when the ACLU conducted an investigation into the largely disproportionate amount of African Americans who were convicted in the tri-state area. Many officials were either arrested or censured for their participation, but no official apology or reparations to those affected or their families. Vernon vowed he would keep the system alive in his portion of the state and used his position as the Imperial Wizard to solidify that oath. As the group of men began to gather around Vernon, the women folk gathered their charges and either went to a friend’s house or home. Once the group had amassed to about fifteen people, Vernon finally spoke.
“Y’all sure no one heard from Delbert ‘nim?” He scanned the faces around the group for an answer, which never came. Vernon stood upright and adjusted himself before he spoke again.
“Aw’right now, y’all go home and take care of the things you need to and meet me in my office at 7:00 pm; we have work to do tonight.” All of the men gathered knew the euphemism of “Work” in his statement and were getting excited about the prospect. After the meeting broke up Vernon walked into his office, leaned over and deftly expectorated a stream of chocolate spit into a spittoon at the foot of his desk. He then let out an audible sigh before he picked up the receiver of his phone to dial the home of Clara Miller, to let her know he was doing everything he could to find her husband. While the phone was dialing he leaned back and placed his feet on the desk. After a couple of rings the phone at the other end picked up.
“Hey Clara” there was a brief pause before he got any response.
“Have you heard anything yet, I’m so worried about him. He would’ve called to tell me he wasn’t gonna make supper.”
“Well now Clara, let’s not get ahead of ourselves here. He may just be out taking care of loose ends; you know how these things go.”
“Vernon it’s me you’re talking too, I know how these things can take time, but I’m telling you; Cecil would’ve called me!” Vernon could tell the desperation in her voice, which he knew all too well since they’re siblings. He himself was worried because he knew what Clara was saying was true about Cecil. Yes, he enjoyed his work but he did not want to face the wrath of his wife; a true southern debutante.
