Horrible Harvest

The second beer was set in front of me, and Tate sipped from his whisky. He smelled of high-dollar cigars and vanilla perfume. The suit he was wearing cost more than the saloon we was gathered in.

“Is it really you?” he asked.

“More or less,” I said. “Reconstruction done you well.”

“Yeah. I was one of the lucky ones who got in on it before they shut it down.”

“Good. You were do for some luck.”

“Isn’t a black man or woman in this country who isn’t owed some luck.”

“Reckon that’s true enough – Why you here?”

“Got a telegram about a week – ten days back from Gladys. She said she and Douglas came across you in New Orleans. Said you needed saving.”

I give a chuckle. “So, you’re here to save me?”

“I’m here because I promised Grace I’d bring you home.”

I stopped mid-drink. “You ought not make promises you can’t keep.”

“I’m pretty good at keeping mine.”

I took a swallow. “One thing I don’t get is this ain’t New Orleans. How’d you know to come to Jackson?”

“Got a second telegram three days ago.”

“That damn Gladys sure is a busybody, ain’t she?”

“She’s a concerned wife and good Godly woman, but the telegram didn’t come from her.”

I turnt to him with a cockeyed stare. “Who?”

“Felix.”

“Felix? Well, I’ll be goddamned.”

“He’s worried.”

“Worried? Me and him have spent the better part of 12 years giving hell to this cuss and that with Bobby and Bert. Had two years in the war together ‘fore that. He ain’t got cause to worry.”

“Something tells me it’s the 14 years you spent together that is precisely why he’s worried.”

“We weren’t doing nothing but surviving and making a living.”

He sipped his whisky after saying. “The owner of this fine establishment just about released his bowels when he learned you were the Tennyson who ran with the Bunning brothers. Got him so scared he let a black man drink in his tavern in Jackson, Mississippi. Law catches me in here, they’ll hang him right next to me for doing something so broad-minded. This part of the country, they handle progress with lethal redress.”

“Any law comes in here making trouble, I’ll give them lethal redress right back.”

He give a cold smile. “And that is precisely why Felix is worried.”

I waved him off. “Worry about your own self. All those years you spent as a saddled-up nigger for the likes of Mr. Miller and all the fake as shit lords and ladies of the South, and you ain’t learned a goddamn thing about fighting back.”

He give me as stern a look as any man’s give me. “I’m just going to say this once, Augustus Tennyson. I love your mother. I adore the woman. She means more to me than a ticket to heaven, so I say this with all sincerity. I will beat her son within an inch of his life if he ever calls me a nigger again. Those days? They are done for me. You bring two traits to the table that I already can’t abide. You’re white and you’re a former Confederate. You throw an unrepentant racist piece of shit in there, and I will boot stomp you, boy. You forget, I’m Southern, too. I ain’t afraid to let the Rebel run rapids through my veins.”

I give pause before laughing harder than I’ve laughed in a long, long time. “I’ll be damned. I got you so mad you said ‘ain’t’. I didn’t think a thing like that was possible.”

His nerves settled.

“Maybe I got it wrong. Maybe you do know how to fight back. I look at you, and I get the idea that you’re lined up more with rich shits than real folks these days.”

He bent his gaze down and looked his fancy suit over. “You think I dress like this because I want to show off, do you?’

“I ain’t met a rich man yet that don’t fit his ego with tailored suits and custom footwear. You’d fit right in with the plantation swill that used to own you. At the risk of earning a boot stomp from you, you look more cracker than me. A rich as shit cracker but cracker all the same. You can dress like that all you want. Don’t mean your side won the war.”

“Are you under the illusion the Confederacy won?”

“I ain’t saying that. I’m saying neither side won. Not a goddamn thing has changed. You think you got your freedom. Bullshit. Ain’t no such thing as freedom. It costs money. A hell of a lot of money. More money than any fool in this bar has. There in here drinking away the poor choices they ain’t got.”

“Nice speech,” he said with a grin. “You want to know why I dress like this?”

I turnt to him and give him permission to give his reason with a smirk and a nod.

“I’ve been put on the auction block three times in my life. You ever been stood in shackles before a crowd of rats? No, you haven’t. That’s what those folks were – The ones gathered at the market – They were rats packed in, standing on their hind legs, sniffing the air, trying to get at the cheese – I was the cheese three times. First time I was six – Maybe – I don’t know for sure because the exact year of my birth had been lost long before I was put on that block. I was big for six – So, said, the auctioneer. My good size at such a young age meant I’d be a big strapping buck in ten years’ time. It drove up my price.

“A man named Graham bought me. A loathsome looking creature, he was. Chipmunk cheeks, brown wispy hair, bags the size of dollar coins under his eyes. Little row of black moles down the nape of his neck. Looked like little roly-polies marching out from behind his ear.

“The first thing that man did when he got me to his plantation was measure me – Every part of me. My fingers, my toes, arms, legs – My private area. He logged every square inch of me in a ledger. The second day, he did the same. The third day, the fourth – Every day that man owned me, he obsessively, manically took my measurements – And – This isn’t my favorite memory, but – After he was done, logging my every square inch in his ledger, he would manipulate himself – In front of me – All the while admonishing me for not growing fast enough. He wanted me bigger. He wanted me to be that big black buck. He’d tell me how much I was worth per square inch – How much money he could get for me if I reached my potential. He got aroused by the thought of how much treasure I could bring him. This was my life for two-years – He sold me because I wasn’t growing fast enough. I literally didn’t measure up to his expectations.

“Terrance Oliver Graham – Wound up in Charleston after the war. I see him at least once a week going about my business on the Peninsula. As free as me. He’s demented, yet he’s paid no penalty for his perversion. He didn’t even recognize me when first we passed each other on the street. For a month, we’d find ourselves circling the same business dealings – Sharing the same space in Lowcountry commerce.

“That’s when I started dressing like this – Not like a showpiece – Like his equal.

“The day I re-introduced myself to him and reminded him of those days when he took my measurements – That was a glorious day – A glorious day, indeed. He nearly soiled himself. I knew his secret obsession. I knew his corrupt heart.

“I stood before him – Towered over him – Higher in spirit – More dignity – Better dressed than him. It all mattered to me because it mattered to him.

“You say neither side won the war, and I tell you without hesitation – Standing in that moment before that man – A ruin of humanity – I tell you, yes, one side did win. My side. I won.”

I give his story some thought and then said, “Why didn’t you just kill him when you run across him again?”

He sighed. “That can’t be your solution for everything.”

“It’s worked pretty good for me so far.”

He laughed.

“What’s so funny?”

“That you think things have worked out for you?”

“I got money, too. I just don’t wear mine.”

“You’re drinking alone in a bar in Jackson, Mississippi. That’s not good.”

I downed the rest of my whisky and chugged my beer, slamming the mug down on the counter. “I ain’t alone.” I set more money than necessary next to my empty whisky glass, and turnt to the door.

Tate followed after me.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

“Your solution may not be right for everything, but for this, for where you’re going, for Cameron Miller – It’s the only solution, and I’m damn sure going to be a part of it.”