Nobody Said Amen. Tracy Sugarman

you believe Mississippi is enemy territory, Ted. You don’t really understand what we feel, or why we feel it. Early last week Luke and I were watching television and there was an interview with Robert Carter, the congressman’s son. He had just arrived in Shiloh with your people. Looked like such a nice clean-cut kid. I said to Luke we ought to bring him out here, have him meet our son, Alex, get to know us down here.”

      Luke snorted in disgust, imitating Willy. “Let’s bring him here! Another great idea from the hostess of the Delta, Wilson Claybourne!”

      Willy grew pink but plunged ahead. “Well, the very next day Em and I were drivin’ through the Quarter on the way to pick up Eula, and we see Robert Carter, big as life, walkin’ hand in hand with a nigger girl! I could have killed him!” She stopped, embarrassed by her outburst. “Maybe not. But I wanted to!” Eula’s attentive but serene expression never altered. Silently, she pushed back on the swinging kitchen door and disappeared. No one but Mendelsohn seemed to notice.

      “You just don’t understand, Ted. I can see it in your face. But you weren’t born and raised in a place that is mostly black. Every day, growing up in Shiloh, I was surrounded by Nigras. Thousands of them. And I had to be special, feel special, or I would have drowned. I couldn’t stand them shoving against me, touching me.”

      Em’s voice rose in anger. “Willy’s right! You don’t understand. You judge. And magazines like yours crucify us. They read in your northern papers that we’re all bigots down here. They lump us all together and never miss giving us a black eye.”

      “You’re wrong,” Ted said. “Mississippi gives Mississippi a black eye.”

      “That’s what I mean!” Em interrupted, almost shouting. “’Cording to you, it’s always us poor redneck fools who are wrong!”

      When Mendelsohn broke the silence he sought to answer the distraught Emily. “Let me ask you a question, Miss Kilbrew. What do you think my editor was going to do with the story I filed from Shiloh last week? I’d gone over to Greenville to check some court records and when I pulled out of the courthouse parking lot in the evening I was chased, ninety miles an hour, all the way back to the Sanctified Quarter. I had to outrun a souped-up pickup truck with two guys leaning out the windows with shotguns. Two shots I heard, but I wasn’t counting, I was too busy watching my rear view mirror.”

      Em’s brittle laugh hung in the room. “Down here that’s what we call the good ol’ boys just havin’ sport.”

      Mendelsohn stared at Emily who busied herself with her glass of iced tea. “Sport?” His voice was acid. “When I made it back to the Quarter I hid my car behind the Chapel and spotted the truck that had chased me. It was parked at your brother’s gas station. And when I reported what happened to the sheriff the next morning, he laughed. ‘Somebody just havin’ some good, clean fun.’ I ought to lighten-up, he said.”

      Em lifted her chin. “See? Just like I said!”

      Mendelsohn looked slowly at each of them. “That is the ‘black eye’ which will appear in next Tuesday’s Newsweek. Three columns. And tell your brother, Miss Kilbrew, the story’s going to run with my picture of the pickup truck parked in front of the Kilbrew gas station.”

      Fuming, Em stood and headed for the front door. “Thanks a hell of a lot for inviting me to your party, Willy.” She nodded to Luke. “Great guest list, Lucas. Make sure Mr. Mendelsohn is invited to the country club.” In a moment, the door slammed behind her.

      Willy sat quietly, leaning back against the couch, her eyes still fixed on the front door. She appeared startled when Luke broke the silence. His voice was quiet and sober. The anger in the room seemed to have left with Emily.

      “There are bad elements down here, Mendelsohn. And some of them are violent people. ’Spect you have a few yourself up in New York. But there are a lot of very frightened white folks down here, too.” His eyes were questioning. “They watch these agitators coming in. They watch a whole stirring about voting and organizing and race-mixing. You don’t have to be Klan to see all these things. Willy sees them. I see them. Not just Bobby Joe Kilbrew. None of us knows what’s coming next. A lot of frightened people. As a reporter, you should know that. And they’re not all black.”

      Eula opened the kitchen door and stood silent, waiting for Willy to notice. Willy turned and beckoned her. “Come in, Eula. I think we’re done.”

      “Anything I can do before I leave, Miss Willy?”

      “Just help me up from this floor. After seven months I feel like a lead balloon, about to burst.” She laughed, “Can a lead balloon burst, Ted?”

      Eula helped her to her feet and then turned to Luke. “Good night, Mister Luke.” She turned and reentered the kitchen. They heard the back door close and Eula’s steps fade gradually on the gravel outside.

      Willy caught Luke’s eye and gave a quick nod. The large man stood, and for the first time in the afternoon, a smile lightened his face. “Not sure this is the kind of southern hospitality you expected, Mr. Mendelsohn. But it’s the kind you’re going to find when Willy Claybourne is the hostess. Very little bullshit and a lot of uncomfortable questions, because my wife has a curiosity that doesn’t stop. I’ve been trying to get used to it since I first dated her in high school. Usually I can ease the situation with some of my daddy’s bourbon—which is exceptional.” He grinned. “We’ve had the questions, but none of the easing. Willy and I would like to have you join us for a drink.”

      Surprised, Mendelsohn returned his smile. “Thank you. I’d be very pleased to do that.” As Luke moved to a sideboard to pour the drinks, Ted turned to Willy. “Might I use your phone, Willy? A friend of mine expected to hear from me by four o’clock.” He grinned as her eyes widened. “The kind of friend that worries a lot.”

      “One of those scruffy students who rarely showers?”

      He laughed and picked up the phone. “How did you know?”

      Dale’s voice sounded tight and constricted on the phone, and Ted had to strain to hear. “Yes, I’m fine. Why do—? When? ” Drinks in hand, Luke and Willy turned at the sudden urgency in Mendelsohn’s voice. He began jotting notes. “Where? Of course. I’m on the way.” When he hung up the receiver, he scanned the notes, and approached the Claybournes.

      “Is there a problem?” asked Willy.

      Mendelsohn handed her the notes. “They’ve found the station wagon that the three civil rights workers were driving.” Her hand was shaking as she returned the paper.

      Luke grinned. “Five will get you three that it was parked at the Havana airport. J. Edgar predicted it.”

      Mendelsohn tried to control his voice. “You’d lose. The wagon was hidden in the woods outside Meridian in Lauderdale County. It’s been burned.”

      “Meridian? And what about the three outside agitators?” Luke’s voice was aggrieved. “They leave a forwarding address?”

      Mendelsohn stared at Luke. “Those three agitators are boys I was with up in Ohio at the orientation, Mr. Claybourne. James Chaney is a kid from Meridian. He’s been working with Mickey Schwerner, a young man from New York who’s been down here restoring black churches that have been torched. And Andy Goodman is a college kid from Westchester, New York, nineteen years old, who just arrived in Mississippi to try to register black voters.”

      Willy stepped in front of Luke. Her face was pale. “Where are the boys, Ted?”

      “Nobody knows. They’re simply gone, Willy.”

      “I think my bet is still a good one, Mendelsohn.” Luke was replenishing his drink. “Can I pour you one?” Mendelsohn knew it was an afterthought meant to be gracious, but he recognized it as arrogance cloaked in good manners. He’d seen it before. Claybourne had the implacable confidence of a poker player who was so sure of the validity of his hole card that he didn’t even have to show his hand before picking up the chips. Mendelsohn felt disoriented and