Jacob stopped on the side of the dirt road and turned. His chocolate eyes widened as a middle-aged man got out of a 1952 black sedan. The stoop-shouldered man, dressed in a white, short-sleeved shirt and khakis, slammed the Ford’s door shut. With a .45-caliber Colt pistol at his side, he walked toward Jacob. “Boy, w’at’s yo black ass doin’ here on a Monday mornin’? How comes you ain’t workin’ in da fields?”
The child, about nine years old, glanced at the sleepy bayou opposite the road and then inched sideways, as if to jump the drainage ditch on his side of the road and run. When his booted foot slipped on dirt baked smooth by South Louisiana’s heat, Jacob twisted forward, his arms askew and panic on his coal-black face.
A smile curled on the man’s lips. “Dôn you play dumb wid me. Dis country’s goin’ to da dogs ’cause you people dôn wanna work.” He stopped four feet from Jacob and switched the Colt’s safety off. “Where you comin’ from, boy?”
Jacob’s mouth gaped open. Sweat poured from his brow. A fly buzzed his face.
The stranger raised his pistol. “I’s not standin’ in dis gotdamn heat all day, waitin’ fo’ a useless piece a shit to ansa’ me.”
“I lives up dere.” Jacob pointed toward pastures bleached white by the merciless August sun. His hand shook.
“Where da fuck is dat?” Without waiting for an answer, the man narrowed his eyes and extended his arm.
Jacob screamed and crumbled to the ground, his hands over his head.
A yellow dandelion beyond the drainage ditch exploded into nothing. Strings of wire between fence posts popped and curled. Birds squawked and flapped into the cloudless blue sky.
“I axed you a question,” the man said.
Jacob clawed at the dirt to get up. Urine stained his tan trousers. “Mah daddy’s Henri Doucet. He sharecrops fo’ Mr. Blanchard. I’s goin’ to Remy Broussard’s house. I’s axin’ him to mah bir’day party.”
The man snorted. “If dat dôn beat all. A black boy’s visitin’ fuckin’ white trash livin’ ’cross da road from me. Dôn you come mah way agin, boy. You dôn want yo daddy hangin’ from a tree, like w’at happened to Moses Dubois.” The stranger spun on his heels and returned to the black sedan. The Ford roared to life and sped past Jacob.
The child’s hand flew to his forehead. “Mudder a God, hep me.” Jacob stumbled in dazed circles on the road until his legs collapsed. A moan rumbled in his throat. He lurched forward and threw up. Mustard-colored bile dangled from his mouth and nose. Flies landed on his face. When a hand touched his shoulder, Jacob screamed.
“Easy, boy. I ain’t gonna hurt ya.”
Jacob lifted his head. Faint recognition flickered in his round eyes. “You’s—”
“Samuel.” The black man was about forty, with a weathered face, grey-streaked black hair cropped short, and built like a tree stump. He wore faded denim overalls and was bare-chested, save for strapped bibs on the front and the back. A muscled arm pulled Jacob up. “You’s Jacob, Henri’s son, ain’t ya?”
Jacob nodded yes.
Samuel pulled a square of calico cloth from the back pocket of his overalls and examined Jacob’s forehead. “A rock done nicked ya. You ain’t gonna git no infection. Da blood’s clean.”
Tears rolled down Jacob’s cheeks. “Mr. Samuel, I dôn wanna die like Momma did.” His voice came in gasps spewed with vomit-laced spittle.
“Dôn you worry none. Samuel knows a ting or two ’bout cuts. You’s gonna be all right.” He swatted at green-bellied flies hovering above Jacob’s head, wiped the child’s nose and mouth, then eyed Jacob. “Goodness, but you’s lookin’ like a giant. How ole is you now?”
“I’s nine in two weeks.” Jacob pinched his lips to accommodate another swipe of the cloth.
“Lordy, you wasn’t no bigger dan a tadpole last year when Henri brung ya to Willow Weeps Plantation,” Samuel said with a shake of his head.
Jacob gagged and rushed to the drainage ditch. Scant water stagnated in a leafy bog littered with pine needles.
Samuel reached long and handed him the calico cloth. “I hears mah wagon comin’. When you gits wid yo own people, you’s gonna feel betta.”
“Mr. Samuel?”
The sharecropper’s generous lips spread into a smile. His eyes twinkled. “You’s wonderin’ how I come here widout da wagon?” He threw his head back and laughed. The rolling baritone floated like a bee catching a ride on a cloud. “Samuel knows to run ’head an’ take a look when trouble passes by.”
Jacob started to speak, but tensed as the wagon neared. When the white driver cracked a whip above the team of mules, his shoulders swayed.
Samuel grabbed his arm. “Ain’t no reason to be ’fraid. Charley’s a little man showin’ off. He was born lookin’ mean. Some people neva looks pretty.” He patted Jacob’s shoulder. “Like me,” Samuel said and chuckled.
The mules snorted to a stop. Black sharecroppers sat on long benches in the wooden wagon, hoes propped between them. Samuel swung himself through the wagon’s open back and then pulled Jacob up. “Dis here’s Roosevelt.” Samuel gestured toward the sharecropper at the end of the right bench. “Folks call him Squeaky,” he said.
Jacob half-smiled at the bullnecked, twenty-something sharecropper and sat at the end of the left bench, next to Samuel. After Samuel brushed dust off Jacob’s blue shirt, they rode in silence. Each stared at the slow pass of barbed wire fences with wooden posts in front of flat pastures dotted with mature pecan trees or stately oaks.
“I’s tinkin’,” Samuel said and faced Jacob, “you ain’t got no rope holdin’ up yo trousers. Boy, where you goin’ all dressed up?”
Jacob beamed and sat taller. “Daddy says I needs to look good when I axe mah friends to mah bir’day party. I’s goin’ to Remy’s house first.”
Samuel scratched his head. “Now, I’s juz come from Willow Weeps last night an’ dôn know dese parts like mah own. Dôn git me wrong.” He winked at Jacob. “I’s worked here befo’ an’ knows how to su’vive. But you kan’t ’cpect Samuel to know where ev’ry boy yo age lives. Lordy, I kan’t ’member when I was yo age.”
Jacob giggled. “Mah friends lives on da right, ’bout a mile up da road. Dey lives in big white houses ’hind a mess a pine trees lookin’ like a snake.”
After Samuel called directions to Charley, Squeaky shot Samuel a warning look. “White people lives in t’ree houses ’hind dem trees,” Squeaky said, air whistling through his gapped front teeth. “Da men was sharecroppas fo’ Mr. Laurent. He’s da rich farmer ownin’ da cattle farm on da far side a dem houses. Dat farmer done took a shinin’ to dose white people an’ give ’em da land.”
Samuel’s eyes popped. “You dôn say?”
“Yes, sir, I do say.” Squeaky leaned forward. His deep-set eyes were intense. “One a dem sharecroppas—a Mr. Broussard—done saved somebody important durin’ da world war. Dis man come up from New Awlins last Christmas. By spring, he done had dose houses built. Almost ova’ night, da boy’s friends moved up, from nuttin’ to sumptin’.”
“Dose sharecroppas got right lucky,” Samuel said and shook his head in disbelief.
“Yes an’ no. Mr. Franneaux lives ’cross dis road from dem houses. He’s a big shot in da Ku Klux Klan. I’s hearin’ Mr. Franneaux dôn want no rich white trash fo’ neighbors.” Squeaky glanced at Jacob. He shielded his mouth and dropped his voice. “Black folks is sayin’ da Klan’s goin’ afta dose white people, like dey done did wid Moses Dubois.” Squeaky ran the edge of his hand across his neck. “You’s heard, ain’t ya?”
Samuel winced and turned to Jacob. “Boy, you’s lookin’ fo’ trouble if you messes wid white people da Klan dôn like.”
Jacob stiffened. “Daddy tinks President Roosevelt was right. ’Cept Daddy says, ‘Da only ting black people have to fear is fear itself.’” He squinted his eyes at Samuel. “Dis is da United States. Daddy says I kin axe mah friends to mah bir’day party.”
“Black people dôn axe white people to parties,”
Samuel said, a stern note in his voice.
Jacob crossed his arms. “Daddy’s cousin was a Tuskegee Airman durin’ da War. Daddy says cousin Royce was fightin’ fo’ all Americans.”
“If yo daddy meks da Klan mad, dose mangy dogs is comin’ afta all da black people livin’ ’long dis bayou road,” Squeaky said.
Samuel flicked a fly off his arm. “A white man drivin’ a Ford passed da wagon juz now. You knows him?”
“No, sir.”
“A gun went off. Was dat man shootin’ to scare ya?” Samuel’s jaw twitched. “Some white people likes to do dat.”
“Guns ain’t scarin’ me.”
Samuel cocked an eyebrow. “Is dat right?”
Jacob dropped his eyes and nibbled on a fingernail.
“White people dôn talk to black people ’less dey’s wantin’ sumptin’. W’at was dat man wantin’?” Samuel asked.
“H-he tole me to stay ’way from here.”
“Was he fat and lookin’ like a ghost?” Squeaky asked.
“Yes, sir.” Jacob blinked back tears and slumped down on the bench.
“Dat’s Mr. Franneaux,” Squeaky said to Samuel. “He’s gonna buy hisself a new car in September. He do dat ev’ry year when da new models come out. He likes to impress da folks in Narrow Bridge.”
Caution rippled across Samuel’s face. “I’s hearin’ ’bout a connection ’tween da hardware store in Narrow Bridge an’ da Klan.” Narrow Bridge was the rural hub, a town twenty-five miles away with one traffic light and about nine hundred people. Railroad tracks ran through the center of the town. White people lived on one side of the tracks; blacks lived on the other side. When blacks entered the white section, they stepped off sidewalks to allow whites to pass.
“Merde. You’s talkin’ ’bout Junior’s Hardware.” Squeaky smirked. “One a Franneaux’s cousins runs da place.”
Samuel turned to Jacob. “Did yo daddy tell ya da Klan done hanged Moses Dubois near where da ferry crosses da Atchafalaya River?”
“Mr. Samuel, I’s not bein’ ’fraid now.” Jacob sat up and squared his shoulders. “I wants to go to Southern University in Baton Rouge an’ betta mah’self.”
“Southern ain’t dat far from here. But you’s gotta stay alive to git dere, even if id’s a black school,” Samuel said.
“How come you’s got white friends?” Squeaky asked, a hard glint in his eyes.
Jacob dipped his chin. “Sometimes dere parents was loaned out to Mr. Blanchard—he’s ownin’ da farm next to da snake’s head.” Jacob crossed and uncrossed his ankles. “I played wid mah friends in da fields. I’s neva been to Remy’s new house, not since dey tore down da ole shack an’ moved up, to da real white people’s world,” Jacob said and lifted his gaze.
The wagon slowed as the barbed wire fence running alongside the drainage ditch ended in a perpendicular turn and changed to a wooden fence. “Dere’s da pine trees,” Jacob said and pointed to the unfenced frontage. “See da snake’s head? Da snake’s tail is up a bit. You kin see Remy’s house t’rew da tail.”
Samuel stared at the scrub pines, their scrawny branches at odds with the tree’s prized timber. He shook his head and gestured toward three mailboxes staked high near a graveled entrance. “Which one’s Remy’s?”
Jacob smiled and stood, confidence in his posture. “Remy’s a Broussard an’ lives in da first house,” he said, reading the surname painted in red. “Madeleine’s a Oubre an’ lives in da middle house. Bobby Lee’s a Gerard an’ lives in da t’ird house. Dey’s gonna be in da fourd grade in September.” His smile widened. “I’s gonna be in da t’ird grade.”
Samuel’s jaw dropped. “One a yo friends is a white girl?”
“Yes, sir. Madeleine’s nice.” He sat down. “She looks like a doll. Ev’ryting she wears is pink.”
“Listen to me, Jacob. Id’s dangerous fo’ a black man to git near a white woman,” Samuel said.
Jacob’s face fell. “I’s not a man, Mr. Samuel. I’s not nine years ole yet.”
“Id dôn matta,” Squeaky said. “You’s tall, an’ you’s done filled out fo’ yo years. If da Klan says you’s a man, you’s a man.”
Jacob squeezed his hands in his lap “I ain’t played wid mah friends since last summer. Sometimes id gits lonely, wid juz Daddy an’ me in da shack. We ain’t got no ’lectricity. Dere’s nuttin’ to do when id gits dark ’cept go to bed.”
“When you gits lonely, you prays to Jesus to fill yo heart,” Samuel said.
“I do. I prays to Jesus a lot.” Jacob wiped tears from his eyes and faced Samuel. “Nobody cares ’bout me ’cept Daddy an’ mah friends.”
Squeaky jutted his head toward the plantation-style house across the road. White columns reflected off brackish bayou water cleared of Cypress trees, save for a boscoyo, a stump here and there. “Mr. Franneaux cares ’bout you,” Squeaky said. “He dôn want no black people near his house ’less dey’s waitin’ on him.”
Jacob’s eyes narrowed. “I’s sorry, but I’s havin’ mah party. I done promised Momma. Befo’ she went to Jesus, Momma tole me to have a party. She wants to smile from heaven.” Jacob stood when the wagon stopped. “Dôn worry. Mr. Broussard’s gonna protect me. He’s a war hero.”
“Lots a white people hates black people mo’ dan dey loves war heroes,” Samuel said.
Jacob stooped low and swung himself down to the road. He waved at Samuel and Squeaky as the wagon pulled forward. With a bright smile on his face, he ran past the mailboxes and up the graveled driveway. When the slight curve around the snake’s tail straightened, Jacob’s pace slowed. The driveway continued, then arched to the right and fronted three identical white houses, each two stories with curtains at open windows that fluttered at deep, manicured lawns. Hand-painted name signs peeked from flowerbeds leading to front porches with white rockers. After giving the black Ford sedan in front of Remy’s house an admiring look, Jacob walked to the back of the house. He stopped mid-step.
A shed with a busted door centered an overgrown lawn strewn with auto parts, kitchen stoves, and wagon wheels. A lopsided picnic table stood under a young magnolia tree. Morning Glory vines twisted and fell from the metal fence behind the wooden table. “No, no. Remy’s family kan’t be lookin’ like proper white people in da front an’ white trash in da back.” He jerked to his left. “Cher Bon Dieu.” Jacob turned and bolted for the gardenia bush beneath the back window.
Chapter Two
Gardenia Bush