Chapter 28

I PEDALED THAT BICYCLE all the way from my growing-up years to the present day. And I began to see people I knew, shopkeepers, old neighbors, and I waved and called out “Hi.” A couple of times I stopped and talked with somebody from my school days, and that was fine.

I rode over to Commerce Street, past the Slide Inn Café, past the icehouse where a bucket came flying out of the darkness just in time to trip up poor George Pearson and send him to his death by hanging.

The exhilaration of my first ride through town was fading under the glare of a morning sun that was beating down hard. I was out of training for Mississippi summers. My thirst was demanding attention, and I remembered a pump at the end of the cotton-loading dock at the gin, just down from the depot.

I pedaled down Myrtle Street to the end of the platform that ran from the cotton gin beside the tracks of the Jackson & Northern line. I leaned my machine against the retaining wall and turned to the pump.

As I worked the handle and reveled in the water-half drinking, half splashing my face-I heard a loud voice behind me, an angry voice.

“What the hell makes you nigger boys think you can come high-walkin’ into our town looking for a job? All our jobs belong to white men.”

At the other end of the platform were two large and burly men I recognized as the Purneau brothers, Jocko and Leander, an unpleasant pair of backwoods louts who had been running the cotton gin for Old Man Furnish as long as I could remember. The two of them towered over three scrawny black boys who looked to be fifteen years old, maybe even younger.

“Well, suh, we just thinking with the crop coming you might be needin’ some mo’ help round the gin,” said one of the boys.

“That’s the trouble with you niggers, is when you set in to tryin’ to think,” said Leander Purneau. He spoke in a friendly, jokey voice, which put me, and the boy, off guard. But then he popped him a solid punch on the side of his face and sent the boy down onto his knees.

The other boys skittered away like bugs from a kicked-over log. Suddenly I really was back in the past, and the boy on the ground was in serious trouble, like poor George Pearson had been.

There was one difference now-I was not a timid little boy. I was a grown man. As I wiped my wet hands on my shirt, I considered what I was about to do.

If I caused a commotion, made a scene, called attention to myself, I might endanger my mission even before it started.

But if I did nothing?

Fortunately, the boy on the ground rolled over and jumped up. He sprinted off down the platform, holding his jaw, but at least he was getting away.

And at that very moment, I felt something cold and hard jammed against the side of my neck.

It felt an awful lot like the barrel of a gun.

A deep voice behind me: “Just put your hands in the air. Nice and slow, high, that’s the way to do it.”

Chapter 29

“NOW, I WANT you to turn around real slow, partner. Don’t make any fast moves.”

I did exactly as I was told. Real slow.

And found myself looking straight into the face of Jacob Gill. Jacob and I had been inseparable from as far back as I could remember, until the day I left Eudora for college.

“You son of a bitch!” I shouted at him.

Jacob was laughing so hard he actually held his stomach and doubled over. His laughter made him do a little jig of delight.

“You nearly gave me a goddamn heart attack,” I said. “You’re a jackass.”

“I know,” Jacob said, howling some more.

Then we hugged, seizing each other by the shoulders, stepping back to get a good look.

“How’d you even know it was me?” I asked.

“We don’t have too many yellow-haired fellows ten feet tall hanging around,” said Jacob. Then he added, “I saw you decide not to mix it up with Jocko and Leander. That was smart thinking on your part.”

“I guess so,” I said. I remembered the time Jacob left me in the swamp to watch what happened to George Pearson. I wished I could tell him why I’d held back this time.

“Hey, it’s near dinnertime,” Jacob said and lightly punched my shoulder. “Let’s go get some catfish.”

“That sounds good. Where we going?”

“Don’t tell me you’ve turned into such a big-city boy you forgot Friday is catfish day at the Slide Inn?”

Chapter 30

I PUSHED THE BICYCLE between us down Myrtle Street, toward the town square. Jacob stopped twice along the way to take a nip of whiskey from a pint he kept in his worn leather toolbox, and I said hello to a couple more people I recognized, or who remembered me.

The Slide Inn was alive with the hum of conversation, the smell of frying fish, the smoke from the cigars of the old fellows who always occupied the front table, solving the world’s problems on a daily basis.

“Why aren’t you staying at your daddy’s?” Jacob asked as soon as we sat down at a corner table.

“You know my father,” I said. “It seemed like Maybelle’s was the smart place to be. My father and I just don’t get along.”

“All right, then. But there is one question I been dying to ask: What in hell are you doing back in Eudora?”

“Nothing much,” I said. “I’ve got a little business to tend to.”

“Lawyer business?”

“Just a simple job for the Justice Department. I have to interview a few lawyers in the county, that’s all it is. In the meantime-it’s catfish!” I said.

Pretty soon Miss Fanny came from behind the counter bearing plates of crispy fried fish, sizzling-hot hush puppies, and ice-cold sweet-pickle coleslaw. The first bite was delicious, and every bite after. I asked Miss Fanny what time the place opened for breakfast, and made up my mind never to suffer through another of Maybelle’s breakfasts.

“Hell, I look old, but you still look like a high-school boy, Ben,” said Jacob. “Like you could run ten miles and never even break a sweat.”

“Oh, I did plenty of sweating just riding that bike a dozen blocks,” I said. “It’ll take me a while to get used to this heat again. How you been keeping yourself, Jacob?”

“Well, let me see… you probably heard I turned down the offer to be ambassador to England… and that was right after I passed on the chance to be president of the university up in Tuscaloosa. Well, sir, it was shortly after that I made up my mind that the profession I was most suited for was as a carpenter’s assistant.”

“That’s good,” I said. “Honest work.”

“Yeah, me and Wylie Davis are the men you want to see if you need a new frame for your window screens, you know, or a new roof for your johnny house.”

Then there was silence, a good and acceptable kind of silence-nothing nervous or uncomfortable about it. The kind of quiet that is tolerable only between old friends.

It was Jacob who finally broke it.

“They were good days, Ben. Weren’t they?”

“They were great days.”

“We were friends! Right through it all.”

“The best,” I said. “We were like brothers.”

We clinked our iced-tea glasses. Then Jacob spoke.

“But there is one thing I need to make very clear to you, Ben.”

“What’s that?” I tried to keep the note of concern out of my voice.

“You said we were like brothers?”

“Yeah? That’s what I said.”

“I just need to remind you of something.”

“Well, go ahead, Jacob,” I said.

“I was always the pretty one.”