Like That Old Man River

CHAPTER 1

The Mississippi Delta – 1924

McAllister, Mississippi oozed southern charm with its large colonial, Victorian, and plantation style homes. Wide cobblestone streets lined with moss- covered oak trees provided welcome canopies of shade, and if asked, those lucky enough to live in the picturesque city wouldn’t have wanted to live anywhere else in the world. Some of its wealthiest residents came from old money. Their ancestors had gotten rich off the backs of slave labor, and their descendants were still reaping the benefit. They were living the good life, or walking in high cotton as one might say, but it was a sentiment only spoken of in hushed whispers in small, elite circles. To do so publicly would’ve seemed vulgar to their sensibilities.

The upper echelon, consisting of bankers, lawyers and such, who were unaccustomed to getting their hands dirty, worked nine to five in family owned and operated businesses in the downtown district. Others who were notably prosperous were the planters – those who tilled and harvested everything from corn to cotton in the rich fertile soil which passed hands from father to son down through the generations. Because their farms were so vast, and labor so expensive, the wealthy planters leased parcels of land to poor tenant sharecroppers in exchange for a portion of their yield. Also respected and supported by the economy were those who managed fruit orchards. Although the soil in the bottomlands was too high in clay content for apples and peaches, other stone fruits thrived. The heat and humidity in the Delta made growing conditions favorable, as evidenced by the abundant cornucopia of produce and fruit stands seen dotting rural roadsides throughout the county much of the year. The backcountry was undeveloped, and with pine and hardwood forests there for the taking, quick thinking investors began lining their pockets with new money made from the timber boom.

With a modest population of roughly 25,000 people, McAllister was a place where everyone knew everyone else. It really was the epitome of small-town America, with more than enough hospitality, churches, morals and patriotism to go around.

One thing that never changed was the Ladies of the Evening. An hour or so before sunset, elderly ladies wearing ankle length pastel voile dresses with sensible shoes and wide brimmed hats, would venture out onto their covered second story verandas. Each would take a customary place on their porch swing, or perhaps shoo away a dog or cat from a comfy wicker rocker, so they could sit and enjoy the evening shade. The ladies would sip tall glasses of cold lemonade, or, after prohibition, perhaps indulge in a mint julep or two, as they watched the goings-on of the street in front of their respective houses. Too, they would chat back and forth with their closest neighbors about their health and wealth, and of course, the latest gossip. Being as they were the city historians, they were only too happy to share their knowledge of the good old days with anyone who might be out for a casual stroll. On any given evening, one might hear the voice of Kate Smith, known as The Songbird of the South, or perhaps Al Jolson belting out Swanee River, from a Victrola coming from inside one of the houses. Crickets whistling in the background and lightning bugs glowing intermittently in flight did their part each evening to complete the setting of southern comfort and gentility. McAllister was touted as being postcard perfect, and in many ways, it was, but it had a dark side too.

Railroad tracks separated the city from its closest neighbor, with the two being as different from one another as night and day. The uppity white folks lived in McAllister located on the north side of the tracks, while a small community of negro men, women, and children lived to the south. Occasionally someone from colored town received a written pass and came across the tracks to work as a janitor, maid, or gardener for one of the well-to-do folks, but it was widely known that they weren’t welcome after dark. Although common in other parts of the country, in 1924, McAllister was one of the few cities in the south known as a sundown town. A sign was posted at each end of the city limits warning non-whites, don’t let the sun set on you in McAllister, Mississippi. A negro caught in the all-white town after dark was subject to harassment, threats, and violent acts – up to and including lynching.

The colored community was known as Cainstown, named after the first free African-American to settle there. It consisted of a mom and pop grocery, a barbershop, a smithy, a combination hardware and feed store, and Homeward Bound Southern Baptist Church, which also doubled as a school. There was no hospital or doctor, however the community’s needs were attended to by a mid-wife named Nora. It was rumored that she settled in Cainstown after riding a barge up the Mississippi River from New Orleans, however no one knew for sure. Directly behind the white clapboard church, which was in dire need of a fresh coat of paint, was a little cemetery. The only noteworthy person to be buried there was the town’s founder, Mr. Samuel Cain, whose family graves were set apart from the others by a short, scalloped wire fence. The church ladies took it upon themselves to faithfully maintain Mr. Cain’s gravesite, as he was hailed by the entire community as a well-respected pioneering giant of yore.

For the most part, life in the Delta was as slow and predictable as the paddleboats which had once churned up and down the Mississippi River. Though the community of Cainstown was predominately poor, its residents had never known any different, so weren’t given to bellyache much. If nothing else, food was plentiful so long as a body wasn’t too lazy to fish or hunt for it. The muddy river was only a stone’s throw away to the west, but even closer was Lake Nacona. On any given day, someone dressed in hand-me-down clothes and wearing a crude hand-fashioned straw hat, could be seen sitting on its banks with a cane fishing pole and a can full of freshly dug worms, hoping to catch a stringer of perch, bass or mud-cats. At certain times of the year crawfish could be found in the bar ditches which were mighty good eatin’, and of course there were always frogs, snakes, rabbits, possum, or squirrel to be found in the surrounding woods. There were a fair number of black bears roaming about in the forests too, but as though by tacit agreement, the townsfolk and the bears tended to leave each other alone.

Most people in Cainstown were just happy to have a place to lay their heads at night, and food in their bellies. All in all, their lives didn’t vary much from day to day, however sometimes, on hot summer afternoons when the sun was intent on baking the marrow from their bones, they would steal away to the local swimming hole. As a rule, trouble didn’t usually come looking for them as long as they stayed in their place and kept out of sight and out of mind of the white folks living in McAllister on the other side of the tracks.

CHAPTER 2

Cainstown, Mississippi

The Williams were one of the poorest families living in Cainstown. Bess and her ten children lived in a run-down house that was part wood and part tar paper, and by all outward appearances, looked to be about a good gust of wind away from toppling over. In the summer it was like a furnace inside, and the winters, drafty and cold always. The house sat on uniformly cut stones about three to four feet off the ground to allow water to flow underneath when the torrential rains came, or when the Mississippi River overflowed its banks, which it did in 1927. The rest of the time the crawl space was a haven for critters like raccoons, polecats, snakes, chickens, stray dogs, and sometimes young uns’ who used it as a cool refuge to escape the blazing summer sun. The front porch was rotten in places and sagged from the weight of discarded furniture piled up on it. There was a tired old brown sofa which housed a family of field mice in one of its cushions, as well as a couple of old box springs leaning against the wall, and several wooden crates overflowing with a wide assortment of this, that, or the other. In addition, there were three cords of wood, a couple of large tomato plants, a red chili pepper plant, Bess’s rocking chair, and a large metal wash tub. Three smaller wooden tubs, a washboard, and a kerosene lantern hung by the front door, and a couple of deserted dirtdobbers nests clung to the wall in the right corner of the porch.

In the yard was a large black kettle for washing clothes, a water well, and a root cellar where Bess kept jars of pickles, assorted jellies and preserves, as well as potatoes, tomato and corn relishes, pickled beets and okra. The earthen dugout also doubled as a storm cellar in the spring and early summer when the tornados came. Many were the times when the sky would suddenly turn a sickly hint of green, and then go deadly silent. The wind would begin picking up speed, until the sound and velocity of it was like a cannonball freight train tearing down the tracks. Bess and her brood would hurriedly scramble down the crude stairs, then shut and bar the double doors behind them. Huddling together in the soft glow of a lantern, Bess would speak in soft whispers in an attempt to soothe and console her frightened young uns’. Once the twister had passed overhead and the danger over, the Williams would emerge from their earthen shelter and take stock of any damage left behind.

To the left of the house was a fenced in garden where Bess grew potatoes, collard greens, poke-salad, corn, pole beans, purple hull peas, beets, carrots, okra, onions, cucumbers and watermelon. A double clothes line was strung up right behind the house and was in constant use, and behind that was a poorly constructed chicken coop. About a hundred feet farther back was a primitive outhouse which could be smelled long before ever reaching it, and whose door hung precariously by one rusty hinge. On the right side of the house, stored in the shade of a big oak tree, were several barrels of rain water, which was used for washing clothes and bathing. Trash and debris littered the yard, which was more dirt than grass, and the only thing that looked even remotely warm and homey about the Williams’ place was a tire swing that hung on a worn rope from a branch of the oak tree.

The house had two bedrooms. Bess slept in the smallest one, while her ten children crowded into the other, which consisted of two full size beds. In order for everyone to fit, the young uns’ had to lay across the mattress sideways, five to a bed. It wasn’t too bad when they were little, but as they grew older the sleeping arrangement grew more uncomfortable. There was a small kitchen with a wood burning stove, and a good-sized living area. With no indoor plumbing or electricity, water for cooking had to be brought in from the well, and candles or kerosene lanterns used to stave off the darkness each night. The house was poorly constructed and had no insulation. On the rare occasions when the temperature dropped below freezing in the winter, it wasn’t unusual for ice to form inside the windows.

Being cooped up in the summertime was unbearable, especially if Bess was cooking on the wood stove. The family congregated on the front porch sipping cold water from the well, slowly marking time as they waited for the first cold snap to arrive in late fall. Sometimes they’d put a ripe watermelon in the well bucket and lower it into the water. Once good and cold, they’d hoist the melon up and cut it into slices. One of the young uns’ favorite pass-times was seeing who could spit watermelon seeds the farthest. Every once in-a-while a seed would take root and they’d have a watermelon growing in the front yard, however, it didn’t usually grow to maturity as the vine would invariably end up getting trampled.

After the washing was done, and the clothes hung out on the line to dry, Bess, who always wore a comfortable, loose-fitting housedress that buttoned up the front, would go plop down in her straight-back rocker. With legs splayed out in front of her, and calloused heels digging into the porch, she would rock absentmindedly while staring off into the distance at nothing in particular. As she rocked, she would try to cool herself with a fan she had made by tearing the back off of a magazine and then folding it up like an accordion. Bess also used it to swat at flies and young uns’, who both seemed hell-bent on provoking her. If she had ever had any hopes or dreams for a better life, she never shared them with anyone.

The kids were loud and rowdy, always pushing, pulling, or fighting over something. One thing was for sure – at the Williams house there was never a shortage of someone to argue or tussle with. Most of the time the young uns’ chased each other around and around the house hooting and hollering, or tiring of that, would chase chickens around the yard for fun. When that happened Bess would holler, Yew young uns’ quit chasin’ dem’ chickens! I done tol’ yew at least a dozen times that if’n yew scare em’ to death, they ain’t gonna lay no eggs! If yew jest gotsta be a-chasin’ some-um’, why don’t yew go chase dem crows outta the garden! Bright and early on any given summer morning, the Williams children could be found playing hopscotch or amusing themselves on the tire swing, but by noon, with the sun directly overhead, they’d crawl underneath the house where it was five to ten degrees cooler in favor of playing games which didn’t require a lot of exertion. Sometimes they’d find short sticks and play tic-tac-toe in the dirt or drive their toy cars on roads and bridges created out of whatever materials they could find. There was never money for store-bought toys, so their cars were empty thread spools of various sizes that their mama had discarded. They imagined each empty spool as being a Model T, affectionately known as Tin Lizzies, and were content to drive the cars around in the dirt for hours. When the young uns’ were finally spent or grew bored, they would fall asleep under the house, or on the tired old porch sofa.

Bess’s husband, Jonesy Williams, was never around to meet any of his offspring as they came into the world. He was in and out of their lives, never even bothering to learn anything about them, not even their names. Jonesy was of average height, dark, stocky, and had a strong back which served him well for working long grueling hours loading cargo onto river barges. In his free time, he would gamble, drink bootleg whisky, and frequent bawdy juke-joints known for their sensual delights which were scattered up and down the Mississippi River. On the occasions when Jonesy found his way home, it was usually just long enough to jump in the sack with his wife and make another baby. Afterwards, Bess would hurry out to pick something fresh from her garden to prepare on such short notice – usually collards with ham hocks, a nice poke salad, and some corn pone and molasses. With his urges satisfied and belly full, Jonesy would reach deep into his pants pocket and pull out one or two crumpled greenbacks, which he left on the table as though he were doing his wife a favor. Then, pulling suspenders up over his broad shoulders, he’d be out the door lickity-split and headed for the river before his wife could try and persuade him to stay.

It seemed that with each new baby that came along, Bess became more and more overwhelmed with life in general, eventually giving into the chaos that came from having a house overrun with a herd of young uns’. She was tired of wiping snotty noses and feeding hungry babies who reached for her breasts day and night. There was always a never-ending mountain of diapers and dishes to wash, and at the end of each day, the woman fell into bed feeling as though every last drop of energy had been wrung from her tired worn out body. She would’ve been more than happy to depart from the world had the Good Lord been ready and willing to take her. As time went on, it seemed that the job of raising her children fell more and more onto the young shoulders of her oldest daughter, Ida Mae.

Fifteen-year old Ida Mae Williams was short and scrawny – no bigger than a minnow really. She had never taken to schoolin’, and although she couldn’t read or write a lick, she knew everything there was to know about shucking corn, peeling taters, and shelling purple hull peas. The cards were stacked against her from the git-go, and through her eyes, life seemed to hold no promise of ever getting better. Ida Mae was constantly having to climb over someone in the small, overcrowded house, which to the teen, felt more like a nest of river rats than it did a home. On all accounts she came up feeling short-changed, and the constant daily grind left the girl feeling mad at the world. With each new day, the seed of discontent and resentment grew, and she became more and more sullen and unmanageable. Though young, there seemed to already be a permanent scowl etched deep into her face.

The teenager had been moody and quick to anger all her life. She had no friends, and the general consensus within the community was that Ida Mae was as crazy as a bessie-bug. Kids, and even some adults, ridiculed, and called the scrawny girl various derogatory names behind her back, but nobody would’ve dared to say anything to her face for fear of her explosive temper. When going up against Ida Mae it was always wise to remember the old adage – it ain’t the size of the dog in the fight, but the size of the fight in the dog. The girl might have been small in stature, but she was known to pack quite a wallop.

Ida Mae felt like a cornered animal. She was desperate for a way out and harbored a deep-seated desire to escape the noise, stench and hopelessness of her home life. Though riverboats had by now become a thing of the past, the teen nevertheless dreamed of stowing away on one. Sometimes she would slip out of the house in the middle of the night and go sit in the tire swing, staring up at the silvery moon and the stars that twinkled above. She had never been any farther than half a mile from home, not even across the railroad tracks into McAllister. In her imagination, Ida Mae felt the current of the Mississippi River taking her away from the Delta to a place far, far away. It wouldn’t be long though before the teen found out that there was no escape. If anything, life as she knew it was about to get worse.

CHAPTER 3

Mrs. Williams took in washing three times a week to supplement the little bit of money her husband, Jonesy, gave her when he visited. On Monday, September 8th, 1924, Bess rose early. She tied her hair up securely with a cloth rag, then slipped out the front door before her young uns’ had even stirred.

The woman emptied four buckets of rain water into the large three-legged black kettle which sat on rocks in the front yard, then lit a fire underneath. While waiting for the water to boil, she retrieved the wooden tubs from the wall on the front porch, then lined them up on two crude sawhorses which were placed end to end, making a table of sorts. She filled two of the tubs with rain water, then set the corrugated metal washboard in the empty one. Once the kettle water was warm, she ladled some of it into the empty basin using a long-handled pot. Bess rubbed soap on the washboard, then vigorously scrubbed each piece of white clothing up and down along the ridges to remove any dirt ground into the fabric, paying special attention to the collars and cuffs. When she was satisfied, she wrung the clothes out, and set them aside. After the kettle water got to bubbling, Bess added lye soap melted into liquid form, then dropped the whites into it, using a stick to poke the clothes down into the soapy water. While waiting, she washed the colored items in the warm soapy water that the whites had been in. After about twenty minutes, Bess retrieved the clothes from the boiling kettle, then rinsed them in one of the tubs containing clean rain water. The colored clothes wouldn’t stand boiling, so after rinsing them twice, she wrung them out, put them in her basket with the whites, and headed for the clothesline. Afterwards, Bess took the dirty rinse water and poured it over her garden, then carried the soapy water inside the house to mop the floor.

It wasn’t long before the household was awake and hungry. After placating her brood with a pan of drop biscuits and jam, Bess sent the little ones outside to play, as she didn’t want them underfoot while she was mopping and cleaning. The older young uns’ trudged off to school, all except Ida Mae, who refused to go. Bess didn’t mind, as her oldest daughter’s education was the least of her worries. Although Ida Mae only grudgingly helped out with chores and her siblings, the way Bess saw it, any help she could get was welcome.

Bess always sent Ida Mae into Cainstown to pick up and return clothes to her regular customers, and to collect the 15 cents each trip that was owed her for her laundering services. The girl hauled clothes back and forth in a rickety old wooden wagon that her nine-year old brother, Willie, had found discarded in a bar ditch while out scavenging one day. Up until then, Ida Mae had been transporting the clothes in a pillowcase slung over her shoulder, however once she saw the wagon, she immediately saw the potential for its future use. She bullied and strong-armed her little brother until he finally relented and gave her his find. Willie sulked and was none too happy about it, but in the end, decided it wasn’t worth getting a bloody nose or losing teeth over.

That morning, Ida Mae put a big diamond shaped piece of burlap in the bottom of the confiscated wagon, and then set Mrs. Owen’s clean, neatly folded clothes into it. The girl brought up all four sides of the burlap and then tied the ends securely around the garments before setting off down County Road 21 headed for Cainstown. Mrs. Owens was one of the few colored women around those parts who could afford the luxury of having someone else wash her dresses and dainties. Ida Mae always met the woman on the wood plank sidewalk in front of the mom & pop grocery to exchange the clean clothes for the money due her mama. Mrs. Owens knew of the girl’s bad reputation, so to be on the safe side, would give Ida Mae an additional nickel to buy a soda pop for the long walk home.

I’ll be back soon, Ida Mae hollered over her shoulder as the screen door slammed shut behind her, knowing good and well that it was a half-hearted promise. In truth, Ida Mae selfishly had every intention of taking her sweet time just so she could enjoy the freedom of not having to ride herd on her brothers and sisters. And who could blame her? She picked up the tongue of the wagon and started walking. She hadn’t gotten very far when familiar voices caused her to stop and turn around. Ida Mae! Wait up! We wanna go wid yew! The teen saw her younger siblings, five-year old Ray-Ray, four-year old Thomas, and three-year old Hallie, making a beeline in her direction, and was incensed. Can’t I ever do nuttin’ by myself, the girl thought? Dropping the tongue of the wagon, the teen looked down at the ground, picked up several round rocks about the size of quarters, and began hurling them toward her little brothers and sister, yelling, Git outta here! at the top of her lungs. One of the rocks hit Hallie on the forehead. Blood trickled down the child’s face as she ran toward the house for cover, all the while wailing. Ray-Ray and Thomas retreated as well. Ida Mae knew they would tell Mama what she had done, but she didn’t care. She wasn’t afraid of Mama. Tattle-tails, the girl said between clenched teeth. Once they were out of sight, Ida Mae picked up the wagon tongue, and went on her way.

Although it was early autumn, many hot humid days still lay ahead. While the morning sunlight was warm and inviting, it would grow hot and intolerable as the day progressed. To the girl, it felt good to be away from the claustrophobic house, the noisy young uns’, her mama, and all that was expected of her. As Ida Mae pulled the wagon along, she was uncharacteristically happy.

The teen wore a loose-fitting blue checked skirt, and a white cotton button up blouse with a Peter Pan collar. Her black hair was a mass of short defiant braids which pointed in every direction, stubbornly refusing to be tamed. She knew that she wasn’t pretty, however wasn’t self-conscious about her looks. Ida Mae wasn’t looking for a husband, reasoning that if all men were like her daddy and hardly ever around, then who needed one? And, not wanting to end up like her mama, the teen looked forward to a life free of young uns’. The way she figured it, she’d raised enough of them already. She wanted her life to be different.

The dirt beneath Ida Mae’s bare feet was cool as she walked down the center of the county road. Up ahead a yellow butterfly was being chased by a white one. They were elusive in flight, flying first one way and then another, seemingly happy and free. Just shy of the wooden bridge which crossed over Bear Claw Creek, Ida Mae stopped to pick some pretty pink buttercups and black-eyed Susans which were growing wild on the side of the road. For a few short minutes, she was no different than any other girl her age finding delight in simple pleasures.

Suddenly, the teenager straightened and stood still with fright as her ears picked up the sound of a mockingbird flying overhead. Ida Mae considered the bird a menace to be avoided at all cost, as she had been dive-bombed by one when she was a little girl and had a scar on her right temple where it had marked her. To her, the presence of a mockingbird was a very bad omen, and the thought of one being nearby caused an involuntary cold shiver to go up her spine.

Approaching the girl on the dirt road was a white man wearing gray trousers, a white shirt with sleeves rolled up, suspenders, and oxfords. With the Depression on the horizon it wasn’t uncommon to see drifters, black and white, wandering from town to town, usually looking for work or for a handout. For several years there had been a great migration of blacks headed north to the south side of Chicago, Detroit, or to Harlem, New York, in search of factory jobs, while others headed toward the warm waters of the Gulf Coast of Mexico to try their hand at shrimping. The man was cleaner, and certainly dressed nicer than the drifters she was accustomed to seeing, but even so, she wasn’t alarmed. Ida Mae sized him up. She could see that he was young, tall, and well proportioned. The stranger wore a Panama hat, but she was unable to fully see his facial features, as his head was tilted down. Just as they came shoulder to shoulder on the road, a strong hand reached out and gripped the girl’s left wrist tightly, catching her off-guard. The bouquet of wildflowers fell out of her left hand onto the road, and the wheels of the wooden wagon carrying Mrs. Owens’ clean clothes came to an abrupt halt. The man quickly twisted Ida Mae’s arm behind her back and muffled her screams by covering the girl’s mouth with his other hand.

The stranger forced the teen through the empty bar-ditch, and then deep into the pine forest that surrounded them on both sides. Ida Mae fought like a hell-cat, but no matter how much she twisted, kicked, and bucked, she couldn’t free herself from the iron-clad grip of her abductor. After a while, the overpowered girl became exhausted from trying to escape, and resigned herself to her fate. It was then, at that very moment, that she heard the all too familiar sound of the mockingbird again, and cringed, as she imagined it laughing and taunting her from high above.

When the stranger was confident that they were out of earshot, he began his vicious assault. He wrestled Ida Mae down to the ground, then pulled up her skirt, ripped off her panties, and raped her. Looking up into his eyes, she could see that he was in some sort of fit or rage. His anger wasn’t appeased after raping the teen, so he then began beating her about the face and head until her own kin wouldn’t have recognized her. Ida Mae could only lie there enduring the torture. Finally, when his anger was spent, he gaped at the girl as though just seeing her for the first time and was horrified by what he had done. His blue eyes looked into the eyes of the girl whose own were almost swollen shut, and he cried out Oh, my God! What have I done! In a sudden surge of panic, the stranger grabbed his hat, and fled the scene of the crime.

Ida Mae lay crumpled on the ground deep in the forest atop a mixture of pine needles and cockleburs. She didn’t know how long she lay there, hours perhaps, just staring up at the towering trees and a small cloudless patch of blue sky overhead, not sure if she was dead or alive. Although by late afternoon the temperature had risen to 92 degrees, the girl was numb and in shock as she lay there cold and trembling. She unfurled her hand which had been balled up in a fist, and as she did, a round disc still attached to a silver necklace fell out. Ida Mae was only semi-aware of it at the time, but later when she had time to process the abduction and rape, she would remember yanking it off the man’s neck as she fought him. While the attack went on and on in what seemed like slow motion, she remembered having an eerie sensation come over her. The sensation was one of being outside of her body and watching from above, as though she were witnessing the attack happening to someone else. The teen knew she would never be able to forget the stranger’s blue eyes, or how he had made her feel weak and powerless. Even though he had had his way with her, she vowed that the day would come when she would exact her revenge.

Mrs. Owens was a little put out when Ida Mae didn’t show up at the mom & pop grocery, but as the Williams’ house wasn’t too far out of the way, quickly decided to swing by and pick her clothes up there. The matronly woman got into her employer’s rattletrap Model T and took County Road 21 just outside of Cainstown proper. She spotted something in the road up ahead and slowed down to a crawl. As she grew closer, she realized it was the little wagon Ida Mae used to transport clothes. Mrs. Owens was puzzled, so she put the car in park and got out to take a closer look. Looking down at the wagon, she saw that it contained what she assumed correctly were her clothes neatly tied up in the burlap. Her eyes went from the wagon to the pink and yellow flowers lying on the dirt road beside it, and then to the forest surrounding her on both sides. Where is that girl? she wondered to herself. She called out Ida Mae’s name, but got no answer. The woman’s imagination suddenly kicked into high gear and her heart began racing. Silently she wondered, what happened here? The scene had an eerie and ominous tone about it, and Mrs. Owens started getting the uneasy sense that eyes were watching her every move. She hurriedly untied the burlap material and retrieved her laundered clothes. After quickly throwing them on the passenger side of the car, she made a wide U-turn in the road and sped away.

Hours after leaving for the store, Ida Mae stumbled out of the woods. Slowly and painfully she made her way down the county road, trying to see through the caked blood that covered her swollen and blackened eyes. When the teen finally reached home, she crawled up the porch steps and lay there in a fetal position for a couple of minutes wincing in pain, before pulling herself up and opening the creaky screen door. Once inside she collapsed into a heap. Most young girls in this situation would’ve wanted their mama to hold them, and tell them everything would be okay, but not Ida Mae. She didn’t seek comfort in her mama’s arms. Seeing the blood, the torn clothing, and the pine needles stuck in her daughter’s tangled braids, Bess had a good idea what had happened, although never asked Ida Mae. The sad truth was she didn’t want to know because there was nothing she could do about it. What Bess knew for sure and certain was that the law in McAllister wasn’t sympathetic to their kind. The poor people of Cainstown had learned long ago that whatever misfortunes might befall them fell on deaf ears and was of no interest to the police. Colored’s were judged to be unworthy of the time and effort it took for an investigation. With that in mind, Bess saw no point in making the long walk over to McAllister to make a report, and possibly get beat up for her trouble. Too, there was no money for doctoring by the mid-wife, so whether Ida Mae lived or died was up to God. In Bess’s way of thinking, she had enough misery and disappointment in her own life to contend with and felt Ida Mae would have to find a way to deal with hers the best way she could.

Bess’s face was expressionless as she put a couple thick pieces of wood into the door of the stove. She stoked the fire until it was good and hot, and then got out a big cast iron skillet. Without saying a word, she went out to the yard, wrung a chicken’s neck, and then brought it inside. The woman sat down at the kitchen table, and while holding the chicken between her legs, plucked it. Feathers drifted slowly to the floor, which she would scoop up later for stuffing pillows and mattresses. Her fingers were adept after years of practice, and the chore was done in no time. Bess cut up the chicken, then salted, peppered, and floured each piece before arranging them carefully in the skillet, which was filled with hot, crackling lard. The woman stole a glance at her oldest daughter and noted that she hadn’t moved, so continued with her dinner preparations. The young uns’ ran in and out of the house slamming the screen door behind them, while the teen lay motionless on the floor. Ray-Ray, Thomas, and especially little Hallie were still mad at their older sister for throwing rocks at them earlier that morning. With never a thought or concern to offer aid or assistance to Ida Mae, everyone just stepped over the girl as though she weren’t there.

The sun had been down awhile by the time Ida Mae managed to get up off the floor. Bess glanced at her daughter, then instructed, Go clean yerself up. Without saying a word to anyone, Ida Mae took a bar of soap, a towel, and her nightgown and went outside. The battered girl didn’t hear the crickets singing or the bull frogs croaking as she took the big metal wash tub from the front porch, and with great difficulty pulled it out to the yard. Next, she drew several buckets of rain water from one of the large barrels and filled it. Once the tub was full, Ida Mae stepped in, and slowly lowered herself down into it. With the temperature reaching above ninety degrees that day, the water was comfortably warm. The rapist had a strong body odor, and the offensive smell still filled her nostrils. As she replayed the assault over and over again in her mind, Ida Mae felt bile churning in her stomach. Weak, nauseated, and alone in the darkness, the girl cried silent bitter tears while scrubbing the crusted blood and dirt from her badly abused body.

CHAPTER 4

McAllister, Mississippi

The ‘Roaring Twenties’ ushered in a time of prosperity and decadence for many Americans. The all-white city of McAllister, Mississippi was living high on the hog, oblivious to the poor living conditions of the colored people living on the other side of the tracks. They always took care of their own, but conveniently turned a blind eye to what they didn’t want to see or acknowledge. Those belonging to the upper crust had every modern convenience of their time at their disposal. Their homes, powered by electricity, gave them access to refrigerators, washing machines, phonographs, irons, toasters, and devices called electric suction sweepers, which vacuumed dirt up from their floors. Radio programs, which were all the rage, were in people’s living rooms, encouraging desires of a more glamourous life of indulgence and ease. Credit became easily accessible when banks began offering loans on installment payments, which in turn ignited the car industry. The automobile, signifying freedom and adventure, quickly became a status symbol for the rich, and as such, gleaming luxury cars could be seen in and around the city proper, or out for Sunday drives in the country.

One prosperous family of note residing in McAllister was the Roth family, who had deep roots in the south. There was Marston Roth, the patriarch, a well-respected banker in town, along with his much younger civic-minded wife Zophia, and their two sons, Theodore and Edmund.

Men of affluence and success sometimes have a God Complex, and that was certainly true of Marston Roth. As well as being arrogant and pompous, he was a narcissist, with an overinflated ego which never allowed for the possibility of error of any kind on his part, even in the face of irrefutable evidence to the contrary. He was stern and didn’t adhere to infractions of the law, not in business affairs, and certainly not in his home. Like a king on his throne, Marston alone sat in the seat of power ruling over the kingdom he had created, basking in his life of privilege, and demanding blind loyalty from his subjects.

The Roth family lived on the corner of Oak and Magnolia Blossom, in the most affluent section of the city. Their large white colonial house had stately pillars, black shutters and a decorative crown over the front door. Brass carriage-style gas lanterns with beveled glass adorned each side of the front door and stayed on day and night. Mr. Roth not only took care of finances but oversaw everything pertaining to the upkeep of his home. In his employ was a gardener, who manicured and meticulously kept the lawn and flower beds, a butler, and a maid who cooked and took care of household duties. He also employed a chauffeur, who kept his limousine polished, clean, and ready at a moment’s notice to ferry him, or one of his family members wherever was needed.

From early on the Roth children were taught proper etiquette and civility, and by all outward appearances, were as polished as the silver service on the buffet table. However, it was Theodore, the eldest, who held all of his father’s hopes and dreams for the future. It seemed that practically from birth he had been groomed to take over and expand the family banking business, and as such, often accompanied his father to work in order to learn the ropes. Through the myopic lens that Marston viewed reality, his oldest son was a chip off the old block and destined for greatness. The patriarch would have expected nothing less. Locked into his sense of entitlement and power, he never saw the real Theodore, for in his mind, his son was merely an extension of himself. Although Theodore was respectful while in his father’s presence, always dutifully doing as he was told, internally he had long ago tired of living in a fish bowl and had also grown weary of the relentless expectations which he felt were placed solely upon him.

Beginning in his early teens, the boy began showing his resentment by purposely acting out in ways that would besmirch the family name, knowing that the thing his father valued above all else was his reputation. And it was true. Reputation meant everything to Marston Roth, and he polished his like a prized trophy put on display for all to see. He loved being seen as someone important. In an attempt to get his father to notice him, the teenager purposely committed a couple of petty juvenile crimes. Maybe Father will see me now. Maybe now he will listen to what I want, he rationalized. But whatever the boy had hoped for, it was lost on his father. Marston Roth, who refused to accept any fault in himself, also refused to accept any fault in his son. He had put Theodore on a pedestal so high that he couldn’t see or hear the boy crying out to be heard, and so he did what he always did. As a successful man with deep pockets, he made sure his son’s petty crimes were quickly swept under the rug and forgotten, ensuring that his reputation stayed intact.

Ever since performing the lead in his high-school play, the theater had been Theodore’s passion. In private thoughts, he had dreams and aspirations of becoming an actor, performing on stages all around the world. He loved the thought of playing different characters, and often practiced works of Shakespeare in front of his mirror at night.

One evening after gathering up his courage, seventeen-year old Theodore asked to speak privately with his father in the library. Once the two were behind closed doors, the patriarch, wearing a deep burgundy satin smoking jacket, lit his pipe and waited for his son to speak. After having given considerable thought as to what he was going to say, the teenager poured out his heart. His words were delivered with conviction and punctuated with sincerely. When he had put the last period on the last sentence, his father, who had never been one given to sentiment, or displays of emotion, looked young Theodore in the eyes, and spoke with heavy emphasis. "Son, you are a Roth. As such, you mustn’t let your passions dictate your life direction. It has already been decided. You will stay on the steady course that I have chosen for you. You will attend a fine college and earn a degree in finance, and then come back and join me at the bank. There will be no more talk about acting. It is out of the question! Is that clear? Theodore objected, But Father! Before he could utter another word, the patriarch stopped him. I said, is that clear? Defeated, all the young man could say was Yes, Father." Marston Roth, self-appointed god and ruler over the adolescent’s life, assumed that all that nonsense about becoming an actor was behind them by the time his son left for college in the fall of 1916.

For most young people, college is their first taste of freedom, and that was most certainly the case for Theodore upon his arrival at Yale University in New Haven, Connecticut. Out from under his father’s thumb and watchful eye, he quickly immersed himself in sports, fraternity functions and drinking parties, reveling in the intoxication of his newfound independence.

Theodore quickly became fast friends with an upper classman named Monty, whose affluent parents had given him a brand-new Model T to get around town in. Soon the two were as thick as thieves. Monty was of average height and build, with wavy blond hair and green eyes, whereas Theodore was tall and insanely good looking. With his dark hair, chiseled jawline, cleft chin, and piercing blue eyes, he looked like a movie matinee idol. Though different in temperament and personality, they seemed to compliment the other. Monty was not only funny but was the life of the party everywhere he went. He smoked rolled cigarettes and prided himself on being a bit of a rebel, while Theodore, who was accustomed to living a strict, regimented life, was more reserved and refined. It didn’t take long however for young Theodore to drop his aristocratic upbringing and follow Monty’s lead.

One thing the two college men loved was adventure, so every weekend that fall, they would hit the open road. The sunshine was gentle on their faces and the air brisk, as they drove Monty’s Model T, with top down, through the amber, crimson, and gold foliage. With generous allowances from home, they would make their way up the coast to dine on Maine lobster or perhaps go sailing. Then, after the last remnants of autumn was gone and winter had settled over New England, they would eagerly head to the White Mountains of Vermont to go snow skiing. Theodore’s favorite place to explore was New York City, as he loved the bright lights, and especially the theater district. He went to see A Night in Spain as well as King Lear and imagined a life for himself on the stage. He reveled in the thought of what his life could be, all the while trying to keep his father’s last words on the subject from putting a damper on his mood.

From the beginning Monty called his new friend Teddy, arguing that the name Theodore had too much starch in it. His name was William Montgomery, but his friends had always called him Monty. He understood what it was like to live in a father’s shadow and be expected to carry on the family business, because that’s what was expected of him too. Their fathers were cut from the same cloth and didn’t understand that their sons wanted to make their own mark on the world. What is it with the older generation? Monty would ask Teddy. After much talk on the subject, they decided to temporarily put their fathers and the bleak futures that awaited them out of their minds. They made a pact with one another to have as much fun at college as they could possibly get away with. And they did.

It seemed there was one blizzard after another in December of 1916 along the east coast, and the boys conveniently used the weather as an excuse not to go home for the holidays. There were a few other stragglers who had elected not to travel as well, and with the majority of students and faculty gone, it was unusually quiet on campus. Teddy and Monty spent time playing matchstick poker, or dominoes, and often stayed up late at night and into the early morning hours talking. They went to see a couple of movies – one with Charlie Chaplin, and the other with America’s Sweetheart, Mary Pickford. To celebrate the season, Monty put a tabletop Christmas tree in his dorm room and strung miniature lights on it. Wanting to contribute, Teddy added silver tinsel and a glittery star on top. On Christmas morning, the boys exchanged presents they had picked up from a local department store in town.