Nobody Said Amen. Tracy Sugarman

      “Cain’t to cain’t?” Mendelsohn asked.

      The old man had smiled. “Work from cain’t see in the morning cause it’s too dark, to cain’t see at night cause it’s too dark.”

      Mendelsohn had nodded. “A long day. And how much do you make, Mr. Williams?”

      “Mostly about six dollars a day. ’Course we got Mrs. Williams’s garden out back, which carries us through most of the winter.”

      Mendelsohn recrossed the highway now, parked the Chevy in the shade of the bank, and stepped gratefully into the air-conditioned interior. It was very small, with only two tellers. Sterling Tildon’s grandfather had opened this bank in the last years of Reconstruction, when times were cruel. Folks needed money, and land was cheap. With a little inheritance, Tildon had begun the acquisition of the land that now made up the largest plantation in the Delta. His father had expanded the bank in the 1930s and sent his son to Ole Miss, hoping he would choose a life in politics. And Sterling had not disappointed.

      Mendelsohn moved across the marble floor to the building directory. Flanked by the Confederate Stars and Bars and Old Glory, it announced that Senator Sterling Tildon’s office was on the second floor. On the third floor was the suite occupied by the White Citizens Council of Shiloh and the Shiloh Club. He slowly scanned the interior of the Tildon bank and then looked out to the sleepy, overheated square. So this modest fountainhead in this two-bit feudal town was the genesis of the extraordinary career of Senator Sterling Tildon. During all Mendelsohn’s years covering Washington, this was the man he had watched with the most fascination as, step by step, he’d mastered the vast machinery of the United States Senate. When Mendelsohn approached the teller and inquired where he might find the mayor, the young woman pointed across the street.

      “Our bank director, Mr. Roland Burroughs, serves as mayor, sir. Mornings he can be found at the City Hall yonder. Afternoons he is up on the second floor, next to the senator’s Shiloh office.”

      Mendelsohn was panting when he reached the second floor of the small City Hall. Facing the landing, the glass door stenciled MAYOR stood ajar. As he loosened his tie and gulped for air, he watched the heavy, florid man in the office struggle to push up the large, shadeless window that framed the square. An ancient fan hung lifeless from the ceiling, and the morning sun flooded the room.

      “Mayor Burroughs?”

      The mayor turned, studying Ted over his glasses. “Yeah,” he nodded. “I’m Burroughs.”

      “Can I help you with that window?”

      “No. Takes knowing how. Damn window’s older than I am.” Mopping his brow, he moved from the window and made his way to the worn leather seat at his desk. “You must be the reporter.” He slowly poured himself a glass of water from a desk thermos. “You want some of this?”

      “No, thanks. Looks like you’ve been doing all the heavy lifting. I’ve just been moseying around, looking at Shiloh.” Nothing stirred in the stifling office. “You mind if I take this off?” Mendelsohn shed his seersucker jacket and stood before the straight chair in front of the desk. “I just found out that you are also director of the Tildon bank, Mr. Mayor. Pretty large load to carry.”

      Burroughs arched his back, settling into the comfortable old leather, and smiled. “Been doing it for so long that it feels like ordinary. I sweat here in the morning and cool off at the bank in the afternoon. Well, take a seat. I’m always glad to have folks come and look over my little town. We’re not big, but we’re right in the heart of the Mississippi Delta. Richest soil in the world, richer than the Nile Valley. And if you can find it, the best moonshine that doesn’t come from Kentucky. Hope you’ll enjoy your stay. So what brings you to Shiloh?”

      “Didn’t know about the moonshine, Mr. Mayor. I guess what brought me here was Senator Tildon.”

      “Sterling! Well, I’ll be darned. You know Sterling?”

      “I know him like a reporter knows the heaviest hitter in the Senate. My beat’s been in Washington for a long time, so I’ve interviewed your Senator Tildon on several occasions.”

      “So the Senator sent you here?”

      “No. I’m covering the great debate going on about the Voting Rights bill that’s tied up in the Senate.”

      “Oh, yeah, Sterling’s been leading that fight. Looks like that commie bill will never get out of committee.” He turned, squinting at the reporter. “Why you here and not in Washington?”

      “Just the way a story unfolds, Mr. Mayor. You go where the story takes you. I left Washington to cover the meeting in Ohio where the civil rights workers from Mississippi came to orient the student volunteers who were coming down to work here. And when I met the group who were coming to Senator Tildon’s home town, I decided to tag along.”

      Burroughs drained the glass of water and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His eyes remained still. “Just decided to tag along. Must be an interestin’ job you got. Where you stayin’? Our little hotel across the square there hasn’t been open for years. Don’t get a whole lot of visitors down here. Not till this commie invasion this summer with those ‘Freedom Riders.’ You stayin’ at the Motel 6 over in Cleveland?”

      “No. I’m staying with Mr. Percy Williams over in the Sanctified Quarter.”

      The mayor’s chair pushed back from the desk. “You’re stayin’ with Percy Williams?” His voice was incredulous. “With those commie kids, those Freedom Riders?”

      “I don’t think Mr. Williams could rightly be called a Freedom Rider, Mr. Mayor. He’s deacon of his church, seventy-one years old, and never been out of Shiloh. Tells me he played with Senator Tildon when he was a boy, picking cotton at Tildon’s place. His daddy did shares there.”

      “For a Yankee reporter, you seem to know a hell of a lot about this Delta Nigra.”

      Mendelsohn stood and carefully picked up his jacket. “You learn a lot when you visit someone’s home town.”

      Burroughs wheeled in his chair, extricating a dusty ledger from the shelf. “You came by to sign the register?” He shoved the register brusquely across the desk. “Just sign your name and your company. Newsweek you said on the phone?”

      The reporter signed the register, shoving it back to the mayor when he was done. “That’s right. Newsweek magazine.”

      Burroughs squinted at the signature. “Mendelsohn. Not a name I ever saw before.” He leaned back in his chair. “What kind of name is Mendelsohn?”

      “Well, it’s an all-right name. It was my father’s name, Mr. Mayor.”

      “Not a name you see down here. Never saw it in Iwo Jima.” He leaned forward, elbows on the desk. His face was flushed. “Never saw it at the VFW.” His voice was hoarse. “Never saw it at the Legion Hall, Mendelsohn.”

      “Not a name that kind of slides off your tongue, Mr. Mayor? Well, maybe you need a title to remember it. I was Lieutenant Mendelsohn on D-Day at Utah Beach. And my cousin, Major Buddy Mendelsohn? He was killed with the 101st Airborne right behind my beach on D+ 2. Maybe that would have caught your attention way back before you didn’t see any Mendelsohns on Iwo Jima. Or at the Shiloh VFW. Too bad there aren’t any Mendelsohns down here in the Delta.” He smiled. “Until now, of course.”

      “Until now, of course,” said Burroughs.

      Mendelsohn waited a beat and then sat back down on the chair. Very deliberately he took out his notebook and unscrewed his pen. “Enough about me, Mayor Burroughs. I’d rather talk about you. And about Shiloh. And about those three civil rights kids, Goodman, Schwerner, and Chaney who disappeared over in Neshoba two nights ago. They were heading to Shiloh.”

      Burroughs rose from his chair, walked to the window, and silently stared out. “I’ll bet you would, Mendelsohn.” When he turned back, his face was angry. “Three more victims of the Savage