Clay County 1920

First time I saw John Robinson he was walking down Main Street at about five o’clock with a suitcase in his hand. He looked out of place for several reasons, the most prominent being his attire. He was dressed impeccably in a new black suit and dark colored glasses. Colored men in Celina wore overalls to church, weddings and funerals; their only adornments being bow ties, clean white shirts and occasionally a new hat of some kind. Also, his walk seemed unusually aggressive. I could see that he met the eyes of white men he encountered on the sidewalk. I saw him walk into the hotel but I didn’t see him walk out again. I knew the owner occasionally let coloreds stay on cots in the basement for full room prices and I assumed this was the case here.

I was in my office on the second floor of the old courthouse. My deputy came in with a shackled prisoner and set him down in a chair in front of my desk. I knew everyone in Clay County so I knew him. My deputy was trying hard not to smile.

“OK Carl, what’s this dip shit done now?”

“Mr. Johnson caught him a’ hopping around in the pen behind his barn with his britches around his ankles trying to corner his prize heifer. I’m real surprised Mr. Johnson didn’t blow his head off with that shotgun he was poking at him when I come up. He loves that calf more than he does his kids.”

“Well none of them kids ever won Mr. Johnson a blue ribbon at the county fair did they?” I asked the kid, red faced and squirming in front of me.

“No sir” the kid said, his eyes glued to the floor.

“Jimmy, why don’t you just bother the livestock on your own place?”

“Sheriff, you know my daddy raises hogs.”

“So you’re a prevert with by-God standards, huh?”

“Yes sir, I guess so.”

Carl had to leave the room.

“Wasn’t it just two months ago Jake Branson shot you in the ass with a .22 because he caught you screwing his watermelons in the dead of night?”

“Yes sir. I still limp some from it.”

“Well son I guess you’re moving up in the world, graduating from the plant kingdom to the animal. What about the mineral? You a big mud fucker Jimmy?”

The kid looked up from the floor. On his face was an expression of abject terror.

“You gonna tell my old man?”

I knew his father pretty well and I did not like him at all. He was the preacher at the Holiness church out west of town. One night at Rosco’s he’d got drunk and cut a whore up pretty bad with a razor he carried around with him. Someone called me from the place, but by the time I got there Rosco had kicked out half his teeth and Jimmy’s dad was rolling around on the floor in his own piss and blood, holding his ruined mouth with both hands. I worked out a deal. The whore got twenty dollars we found in his jeans, Rosco got the mule he’d ridden in on, I got the fifty he had in his hat and I took him home instead of to the jailhouse. Rosco came out good on the deal, it was a damn fine mule.

Jimmy’s father was a prissy little man with a bad mean streak who beat his wife and kids on a regular basis. He’d probably kill Jimmy because of this shit.

“Jimmy I heard you’ve been working out at the Mill’s place cutting timber. That right?”

“Yes sir.”

“You got any money on you?”

“Yes sir. Five dollars and ten cents.”

“Give it to me and I’ll give it to Mr. Johnson for any damage you may have caused his animal.”

Jimmy eagerly handed it over. I looked at him in his eyes.

“You pull any more of this crap and I’ll drive you to the state funny farm myself. I swear to God I will. Shit, Jimmy you’re damn near a grown man. You got a job. Just rent you some pussy.”

“Yes sir, I will”

*

As I walked into the Sheriff’s office a big, dumb looking white kid was walking out.

“Something wrong with your eyes?” the Sheriff asked, squinting at me.

I took off my glasses. He was aghast.

“Well fuck me runnin’, I’ve never seen a blue eyed colored man before. Hell I bet you could pass if you smoothed out that hair. Why don’t you?”

“Where I’m from I don’t have to.”

“Where’s that exactly?”

“Boley Oklahoma. It’s an all black town in what used to be the Creek Nation. Is your name Garland Pickett, Sheriff?”

“It is. How do you know?”

“We have a friend in common, a man named Rosco Lily. He came to Boley about seven years ago riding a black mule. Do you remember him?”

The Sheriff smiled and said; “Yeah I know Rosco. His wife caught him with one of the whores and cut off one of his nuts. So he rode that mule to Oklahoma? Always wondered where he went.”

“He said you’re the only white man he considered to be worth half a shit.”

“High praise coming from Rosco. There’s a blind tiger he used to own that’s still open, still called Rosco’s. What’s your name?””

I told him and we shook hands, got into his new Ford and drove about five miles into the woods to a big log structure. It was dusk and lights shone from the windows. There were outbuildings in the back.

“Rosco tell you about this place?” the Sheriff asked as we walked in.

“Just that it was here.”

“See that line painted on the floor? This side’s Tennessee, that’s Kentucky. Clay county’s dry, but I’m not real picky about whores and such. County on the Kentucky side’s wet.”

I bought a jug and we sat at a table in Kentucky. The sheriff poured a drink and asked: “So what you doing here?”

“Came to hear the reading of Zeke Robinson’s will.”

“Why?”

“I’m his son.”

*

So we corked the jug and went to back to my office after he had me stop at the hotel, from which he retrieved his satchel and a white man he introduced as his attorney. The lawyer I’d seen twice in court, and he’d lost twice. He’d been drunk both times and he was drunk now. He settled in a chair and went right to sleep.

To say Ezekiel Robinson was wealthy would be an understatement. His land holdings comprised half the county and his bank held mortgages on the other half. His father had been among the first white settlers in the region. During the war he had been a Confederate major until he lost a leg at Chickamauga and returned in 1863. At one time he’d owned a hundred twenty slaves. Half the Negro population of the county were named Robinson. He was 87 at his death, which had occurred the previous week. The reading of his will would occur in two days.

I looked across my desk and asked: “OK Mr. Robinson, what can I do for you?”

“What do you think of William Robinson?”

“I think Little Bill Robinson is a total waste of human sperm. Why? Do you want me to kill him for you?”

“No, I want to gauge the strength of my enemy.”

“He’s the loan officer at the bank. People know him but few like him. And he’s white. You ain’t. But let me ask you something. Why do you think your name’s on that will?”

“You’ll have to hear my biography.”

“Sure. I’ll even pour you a drink. Why the fuck not?”

“After the war the Major kept my mother on as a housekeeper. One thing led to another which led to my birth in ‘68. I came out looking like I do, so we had to leave. He gave us a wagon, two mules and two thousand dollars in gold in a box nailed to the buckboards. Some of Mamma’s family had moved to I.T. so that’s where we went. The Major sent us money every month. She put his picture up on the wall. I saw it every day growing up. He paid for me to go to school. I think he really loved her. She said he bawled like a baby the day we left. He told her that after he died we should come back here because he wouldn’t forget us in his will. The Spanish flu took Mama two tears ago, but I’m still alive so here I am, and I’ll pay you to keep me safe.”

I didn’t even have to think about it. I told him I was surprised he wasn’t dead already. I told him Little Bill owned the local judge. I told him to leave instantly if not sooner. But of course he didn’t.

*

It was a hot night in the new cut hay field I found myself standing in. Clouds of insects and dust attacked the ring of headlights surrounding me. I sneezed, but with my hands bound behind me I was unable to wipe the snot from my face. It dripped and glistened in the light. I could smell the sweat with which I was soaked. One of the men coughed, another lit a cigarette. Then it was still. No moon. No breeze. Quiet.

A police car bounced up, shattering the silence, and slid to a stop, stirring up the dust again. From it emerged Sheriff Garland Pickett looking tired, bald and a little bored. He walked the twenty yards to where I stood, looked at his shoes and exhaled deeply through his nose as though pondering a knotty problem. He shook his head slowly, looked me in the eyes and asked me in an almost gentle voice,

“What in the fuck are you still doing here?”

“I have to stay to get my money.”

The Sheriff pointed and said: “See that stump yonder? They soaked it in kerosene. Know why? So they can light it on fire after they nail your nuts to it.”

I couldn’t think of anything to say to that so I kept quiet.

“You know what your problem is? You just can’t believe white folks can be so fucking mean. The Indians had the same problem and look at them now. If you can find any.”

“You won’t leave me here.”

“You don’t think so?”

I shook my head.

“You think I’ll risk my job over some snot nosed buck nigger?”

“Yes, I think you will.”

“Why?”

“Half.”

“Half of jack shit?”

“Half.” I said again.

“Shit.” said the Sheriff as he dug a pocket knife from his pants pocket, cut a plug of tobacco and stuck it in his jaw. He looked at the dark sky, then spat on the ground.

“Take me downtown and I’ll sign papers. We’ll be partners. Fifty-fifty. You won’t have to trust me.”

“You best believe I don’t.”

“How much that judge want?” I asked, trying to read the Sheriff’s expression.

“More than you got. He wants money up front.”

“I didn’t come out here with nothing. How much?”

The Sheriff spat again, looked at his watch.

“Little Bill offered him seven hundred fifty.”

“I can beat it.” I said, mildly encouraged by the Sheriff’s demeanor. “I can go to a thousand.”

“There’s only one problem.”

“What’s that?

“Judge Wilson hates niggers.”

“He hate niggers more than he loves money?”

“Shit, I guess we’ll see.” the Sheriff said as he cut the rope that bound me, grabbed my arm and started walking me back to his car. I walked with my head bowed. I watched the grasshoppers whir and dance at my feet.

After ten paces someone fired a shogun blast into the air. Someone else hollered: “Gar, where the hell you think you’re going with that nigger?”

The sheriff didn’t answer. He told me to run for the car. Someone fired a rifle, the round struck about a yard ahead of us. Others fired as well. I counted myself lucky that most of the men were too drunk to shoot straight. We got to the car kicking up dust. I lay down in the front seat as a bullet shattered the windshield. The Sheriff grabbed a Thompson sub machine gun from the back seat and fired a long burst in the direction of the men who had been firing at us. I heard a man yelp. The Sheriff had left the car running. We blasted off into the night, putting a fuck-ton of dust in the air. The other men ran to their vehicles and began to crank their engines, but we were already a quarter mile ahead of them. The air coming in from the busted windshield felt cool and clean. We were both grinning when we hit the asphalt on the highway.

*

I’d stuck my foot in it, so I was all in now. I found a place for John to stay up at Free Hill after the boys had dragged him out of the hotel that night. I gave Jimmy a pump shotgun and paid him to watch John’s back.

They read the will and, sure enough, John and his mother were named sole heirs. He produced a picture passport and discharge papers from the Spanish war to prove his identity. Of course Little Bill contested the will. The hearing lasted several days. The only thing I remember of it was Clara Macky’s testimony.

Clara was the Major’s baby sister. She had married the neighbor’s kid at seventeen who died two months later when a tree he was cutting fell on his head. She’d moved back home and had lived with the Major ever since. At sixty she was still an amazingly fine-looking woman. She was also smart and proud to the point of haughtiness.

John’s lawyer addressed her. “Mrs Macky, can you verify that this is your brother’s will?”

Clara glanced at it and said it was.

“Mrs. Macky, how old were you in 1868?”

“I was ten.”

“Where were you on August fifth of that year?”

Clara looked at him like he was something crawling across a shit-house floor and said nothing. The judge ordered her to speak.

“I was at home.”

“Was there a birth taking place in your home?”

She was silent again and using her handkerchief.

“I ask again, did a birth take place on that day in your home?”

Clara was openly weeping. “Yes.” she said.

“Mrs. Macky, before I ask this question I remind you that you swore to God almighty to tell the truth. What was unusual about your Negro housekeeper’s child?”

“His eyes.’

“What about his eyes?”

“He had blue eyes.”

Court was adjourned. Clara walked up to John, spat in his face and said, “May God damn your eyes nigger.”

And that sealed it. John was as good as his word, I got half of everything. The judge stayed bought because he knew I’d kill him if he didn’t. John and I went our separate ways.

I saw John again at a bar in New Orleans a year later. He was sitting across the room looking tickled with himself when a woman joined him. I laughed and walked to his table with my hand stuck out.

“Hello. My name’s Garland. And what’s your name?”

Clara giggled. It sounded like little silver bells. John didn’t say anything.

“How long have you two known one another?”

“I worked her Daddy’s horses for a year during the war in France. We got kind of sweet on each other.”

“What about the will and the passport and shit?”

“I know a man in Nashville.”

“What was in it for you Clara?”

“That bastard brother of mine didn’t leave me a pot to piss in.”

“What about the money you gave the judge?”

“I once rode with man named Bill Dalton. I didn’t spend it all.”

“I remember when they shot Bill Dalton. Saw a postcard and everything.”

He grinned and said, “Shit, I’m not worried about it.”

I drank way too much that night.