“You do,” I said. We were averaging three mistakes per week, according to her. I still got the list every Thursday over lunch.
We took a stroll around the square and eventually made it to Claude’s, the black café next to City Cleaners. Claude had been in business for many years and served the best food in town. He didn’t need menus because you ate whatever he happened to be cooking that day. Wednesday was catfish and Friday was barbecue, but for the other four days you didn’t know what you would eat until Claude told you. He greeted us in a dirty apron and pointed to a table at the front window. The café was half-full and we got some curious stares.
Oddly enough, Miss Callie had never met Claude. I had assumed that every black person in Clanton had at one time bumped into every other one, but Miss Callie explained that was not the case. Claude lived out in the country, and there was an awful rumor over in Lowtown that he did not go to church. She had never been anxious to meet him. They had attended a funeral together years earlier, but had not met.
I introduced them, and when Claude put her name with her face he said, “The Ruffin family. All them doctors.”
“PhD’s,” Miss Callie said, correcting him.
Claude was loud and gruff and charged for his food and did not go to church, so Miss Callie immediately disliked him. He took the hint, didn’t really care, and went off to yell at someone in the back. A waitress brought us iced tea and corn bread, and Miss Callie didn’t like either. The tea was weak and almost sugarless, according to her, and the corn bread lacked enough salt and was served at room temperature, an unforgivable offense.
“It’s a restaurant, Miss Callie,” I said in a low voice. “Would you relax?”
“I’m trying.”
“No you’re not. How can we enjoy a meal if you’re frowning at everything?”
“That’s a pretty bow tie.”
“Thank you.”
My upgraded wardrobe had pleased no one more than Miss Callie. Negroes liked to dress up and were very fashion conscious, she explained to me. She still referred to herself as a Negro.
In the wake of the civil rights movement and the complicated issues it had spun, it was difficult to know exactly what to call blacks. The older, more dignified ones like Miss Callie preferred to be called “Negroes.” A notch below them on the social ladder were “coloreds.”
Though I had never heard Miss Callie use the word, it was not uncommon for upper blacks to refer to the lowest of their kind as “niggers.”
I could not begin to understand the labels and classes, so I adhered strictly to the safety of “blacks.” Those on my side of the tracks had an entire dictionary to describe blacks, little of which was endearing.
At that moment, I was the only non-Negro in Claude’s, and this bothered no one.
“What y’all eatin’?” Claude yelled from the counter. A blackboard advertised Texas chili, fried chicken, and pork chops. Miss Callie knew the chicken and pork would be sub-par, so we both ordered chili.
I got a gardening report. The winter greens were especially nice. She and Esau were preparing to plant the summer crop. The Farmer’s Almanac predicted a mild summer with average rain — same prediction every year — and she was excited about warmer weather and lunch back on the porch, where it belonged. I began with Alberto, the oldest, and half an hour later she ended with Sam, the youngest. He was back in Milwaukee, staying with Roberto, working and taking classes at night. All children and grandchildren were doing well.
She wanted to talk about “poor Mr. Hank Hooten.” She remembered him well from the trial, though he had never spoken to the jury. I passed along the latest news. He was now living in a room with padded walls, where he would remain for some time.
The restaurant filled up quickly. Claude walked by with an armload of plates and said, “Y’all finished, time to go.” She pretended to be insulted by this, but Claude was famous for telling people to leave as soon as they were finished. On Fridays, when a few whites ventured in for barbeque and the place was packed, he put a clock on his customers and said, loudly, “You got twenty minutes.”
She pretended to dislike the experience — the idea itself, the restaurant, the cheap tablecloth, the food, Claude, the prices, the crowd, everything. But it was an act. She was secretly delighted to be taken to lunch by a well-dressed young white man. It had not happened to any of her friends.
As I gently pulled her out of the car back in Lowtown, she reached into her purse and took out a small scrap of paper. Only two typos that week; oddly, both were in classifieds, an area that Margaret handled.
I walked her to the house. “That wasn’t so bad now, was it?” I said.
“I enjoyed it. Thank you. Are you coming next Thursday?” She asked the same question each week. The answer was the same too.
Chapter 27
At noon on the Fourth of July the temperature was 101 degrees and the humidity felt even higher. The parade was led by the Mayor, even though he was not yet running for anything. State and local elections were in 1971. The presidential race was in 1972. Judicial elections were in 1973. Municipal elections were in 1974. Mississippians loved voting almost as much as football.
The Mayor sat on the rear seat of a 1962 Corvette and threw candy to the children packed along the sidewalks around the square. Behind him were two high school bands, Clanton’s and Karaway’s, the Boy Scouts, Shriners on mini-bikes, a new fire truck, a dozen floats, a posse on horseback, veterans from every war that century, a collection of shiny new cars from the Ford dealer, and three restored John Deere tractors. Juror number eight, Mr. Mo Teale, drove one. The rear was protected by a string of city and county police cars, all polished to perfection.
I watched the parade from the third-floor balcony of the Security Bank. Stan Atcavage threw an annual party up there. Since I now owed the bank a sizable sum, I was invited to sip lemonade and watch the festivities.
For a reason no one could remember, the Rotarians were in charge of the speeches. They had parked a long flatbed trailer next to the Confederate sentry and decorated it with bales of hay and red, white, and blue bunting. When the parade was over, the throng moved tightly around the trailer and waited anxiously. An old-fashioned courthouse hanging couldn’t have drawn a more expectant audience.
Mr. Mervin Beets, president of the Rotary club, stepped to the microphone and welcomed everyone. Prayer was required for any public event in Clanton, and in the new spirit of desegregation he had invited the Reverand Thurston Small, Miss Callie’s minister, to properly get things going. According to Stan, there were noticeably more blacks downtown that year.
With such a crowd, Reverend Small could not be brief. He asked the Lord to bless everyone and everything at least twice. Loudspeakers were hanging from poles all around the courthouse, and his voice echoed throughout downtown.
The first candidate was Timmy Joe Bullock, a terrified young man from Beat Four who wanted to serve as a constable. He walked across the flatbed trailer as if it were a gangplank, and when he stood behind the mike and looked at the crowd he almost fainted. He managed to utter his name, then reached into a pocket where he found his speech. He was not much of a reader, but in ten very long minutes managed to comment on the rise in crime, the recent murder trial, and the sniper. He didn’t like murderers and he was especially opposed to snipers. He would work to protect us from both.
Applause was light when he finished. But at least he showed up. There were twenty-two candidates for constable in the five districts, but only seven had the courage to face the crowd. When we finally finished with the constables and the Justices of the Peace, Woody Gates and the Country Boys played a few blue-grass tunes and the crowd appreciated the break.