Tick, tock, tick, tock—White’s mocking and hectoring words—bounced violently in John’s head. It had been over a week since White presented John with a ticking time bomb—retract the story in The Messenger, or John would risk putting his business and his wife’s life in dire jeopardy. The weight of White’s threatening demand was now too much to bear; it was time to tell someone, or else he’d risk his mind exploding.
“Hey, Jethro,” John said while standing at the printing press wiping his hand on his ink-stained leather apron.
“Yes, boss.”
John walked over to Jethro, put his right hand on Jethro’s left shoulder and said, “Sit down, Jethro.”
Sitting next to Jethro, John faced toward him, and his eyes locked onto Jethro’s coal-colored eyes in knitted concentration. Jethro looked at John through his small-framed glasses, the kind favored by young college-educated men. His standard good looks—tall, forceful square jaw, high cheekbones, and soft chocolate-brown eyes that women loved—were somewhat derailed by a mole that was just below his widow’s peak. He had something that John didn’t have, a college degree, one from Atlanta University. He was an excellent researcher, and someone who knew how to let the facts drive the story.
After a few seconds of John’s awkward stare, Jethro asked, “Is there something wrong?”
John gave a nearly imperceptible nod. “I haven’t told anyone about this; you’re the first,” John said as his eyes went blank.
“Boss, you got me worried. What is it?”
“You know that story you wrote about “vile anti-miscegenation laws?”
“What about it?”
“They want us to retract that story; put something in The Messenger saying we don’t really stand by it.”
“Boss, I wrote what I believe.” Feeling a need to defend himself, he added: “You told me it was okay to run that story.”
John nodded to acknowledge Jethro’s point.
“Boss, you have to tell me what’s going on.”
“Chester White stopped by here a few days ago and told me that I have to retract your story in two weeks.”
“And if you don’t?”
“He threatened to destroy this building and mentioned something about my ‘lovely wife.’”
“Who is this Chester White?”
John wasn’t finished. “He mentioned something about me not disappointing the Council. I don’t know what that means.”
Jethro unhooked his glasses from his large ears, removed them, and massaged his temples with his head slightly bowed. He raised his head and said defiantly, “We’ve got to fight back. We can’t let them destroy what we’re doing here in this community. Our community needs The Messenger. We have been victimized ever since we landed in this country. No more. We’re speaking up.”
John nodded, admiring Jethro’s intelligence and keen insight. He knew the way out of victimhood for the colored community in Lawrence County was to cease being victims and to articulate the promise made by the Declaration of Independence and the United States Constitution. He also knew that articulation would be, as it had always been, a threat to white superiority.
As Jethro’s heavy lids covered his eyes for a few seconds, he tapped into his memory bank and retrieved what he was looking for. “This Council,” Jethro said, “I believe that’s the White Citizen’s Council. They have a lot of influence with politicians. I know they’re not afraid to throw their weight around. They specialize in terrorizing colored folk. And white folk too who don’t bend to their demands.”
John was silent, continuing to absorb what Jethro had just told him.
“When are you going to tell Mr. White to go to hell?” Jethro said.
“If I tell him no, we’ve got to be prepared to deal with the consequences, especially if they’re as powerful as you say.”
“What does Tilla think about all of this?”
John shook his head.
“You mean she knows nothing about this?” John said nothing, so Jethro continued: “You need to tell her.”
John offered an excuse. “Not yet; she’s busy with the kids and taking care of the house—and helping the church with the New Year’s Eve party. Tell her boss.”
John stood up, as did Jethro, and John asked, “How’s the New Year’s Day paper coming along?”
“It’s coming … more work needs to be done.”
“I want you to knock off early today. It’s Christmas Eve; go home and be with your family.”
Jethro returned to the unpleasant conversation about the Council. “What’re you going to do about this matter?”
John deflected the question. “I’m leaving soon. I should have been at First Baptist a while ago to help with the planning on the New Year’s Eve party. Tilla’s probably upset that I’m not there yet.”
John knew that he’d soon be forced to make an epochal decision about whether to retract the story or side with Jethro, his trusted friend and loyal reporter. But he knew he needed to hear from more voices—a lot more in short span of time.
Tick, tock, tick, tock.
k
Several church members had gathered at First Baptist Church to finalize the plans for the big New Year’s Eve celebration. The celebration was Reverend Owen’s idea, and he did most of the talking. In addition to the logistics of planning for the celebration, he told those assembled before him that they could participate in the planting of a time capsule on church property. The hole for the time capsule had already been dug and all that was needed was for the congregants to write something that when viewed one hundred years later would demonstrate how one’s racial identity was no longer an issue in Lawrence County or anywhere else in Alabama and the remaining forty-four states. For those who could not write, he asked them to express their sentiment to someone who could.
“Theo, come here now,” Tilla said as she sat in the church sanctuary listening to Reverend Owen.
Theo dragged his feet as he walked to his mother.
“I want you to stop running around while the pastor is talking. Now be a good boy; I’ve got to watch your sisters. You’re five years old now. I need you to be my little man, okay?”
“Okay,” Theo said with his head bowed, acknowledging the mild reprimand. He looked at his two-year-old sister, Bessie, whose eyes decried Theo’s behavior. He sat next to her, and he stuck out his tongue at her. Bessie tapped Tilla on the arm and Theo quickly retracted his tongue.
“Before we depart,” Reverend Owen said, “does anyone have any questions?”
Jimmy raised his hand. “Yes, Brother Jimmy.”
Jimmy stood up, drawing himself to a full six feet, eight inches. He removed his callused hands from his duck-cotton overalls and threaded them in front of him, saying, “I’m going to need some men to help me haul the meat here.”
“You’ll get help,” Reverend Owen said. “I’ll see to it.”
Suddenly, Reverend Owen looked at Tilla. “Where’s Mr. Davis?” he asked.
She was draped in a green empire waist dress. Even with three children, Tilla maintained her hourglass shape, the same one that continued to enthrall John and male passersby. Whether it was envy or admiration, women in church and elsewhere talked about how well she managed her children, her house, and her husband. She was polite to everyone and spoke with a disarming voice. She had learned from her husband to be strong but not rude, kind but not weak, humble but not shy, and proud but not arrogant.
“He should’ve been here by now. I know he told me earlier that he was going to the press,” Tilla said while dandling one-year-old Eunice on her lap.
Reverend Owen adjourned the meeting, telling all that he was excited about the new century and that life for colored folk would get better.
As people began to pour out of church, John walked to the front, where he saw his wife and kids. He sat next to Theo.
“How’s my boy?” he said while rubbing Theo on the head.
Theo shrugged, then said, “I’m hungry.”
“Your mama’s going to fix you some biscuits when you get home,” he said looking at Tilla, who observed John’s aspect plunge to darkness; he clasped his hands, his eyes narrowed, and his head was slightly bowed.
Tilla had seen the look before, one that meant something was probably awry. Tilla stood and donned Eunice’s coat. John donned Bessie’s coat. Theo already had on his coat, ready to go home to eat.
“Honey, take the children home. I’ll see you soon,” John said.
John was anxious and needed counsel from his pastor about how to handle White. He tapped Reverend Owen on the left shoulder. Reverend Owen turned around and smiled upon seeing John, who tried to return the smile but couldn’t.
“Reverend Owen, you got some time to talk?”
“What’s on your mind, John?”
“I need to talk to you in private.”
“Okay, son,” Reverend Owen said. As their spiritual father, he called all of the male members of his church son regardless of age. “Let’s go to my office.”
John told his pastor about White’s visit to the press and how he threatened the paper and Tilla. “So, I suppose you’re asking me what you should do?”
John shrugged his shoulders.
“What do you know of Mr. White?” Reverend Owen asked.
“Jethro mentioned that he’s with something called …” he said pausing to recall the name. “Oh, something like the White Citizen’s Council. Yeah, that’s it, the White Citizen’s Council.”
Reverend Owen closed his eyes and nodded a few times. He looked like he was praying. He opened his eyes and looked at John, saying, “I’ve heard of them. First heard about them a few years ago when I attended a leadership conference for Negro ministers in Birmingham.”
Reverend Owen fully understood the weight that the Council carried. “John, my son, the White Citizen’s Council cannot be taken lightly. We need to gather our men colored folk here in town to discuss this matter.” He paused, then added: “When did you say White wants an answer?”
“He’ll be back in four days, no three days, before the church’s New Year’s Eve party.”
Reverend Owen looked at John, recalling the first time he saw the young man in his church several years ago, when he didn’t say much when asked to talk about his life. He now saw a twenty-nine-year-old man who had blossomed into a family man with children and one who was widely respected in the colored community. He stood up and walked from behind his desk to go to the front. He sat on the edge of the desk looking down as John was still seated, wondering what Reverend Owen was going to do.
“Stand up, John.”
John complied.
Reverend Owen rose from the desk and walked within a foot of John. Although John was a few inches taller than Reverend Owen, John believed his minister was taller in stature. Everything about Reverend Owen exuded confidence—from his erect posture, to his soaring church orations, to his natty attire.
“Son, you’ve made yourself a good reputation in this community. Even some white folks respect you. I don’t think you need to make a decision just yet. When White comes in three days’ time, tell him you’re still mulling it over.”
“But Reverend Owen …”
Reverend Owen interrupted John. “White will report back to his superiors; they’ll tell him that they’ll give you another day or two to reconsider.”
“Then what?” John asked nervously. White was a crosspatch and his behavior seemed unpredictable.
As a minister, Reverend Owen had counseled hundreds of people and had studied their eyes. John didn’t say another word to explain the pressing problem; his eyes had declared to Reverend Owen that his problem needed to be addressed urgently. The full weight of the church was needed to help John. “Let’s get our men folk here in two days to discuss this. I’m going to stand by you.”
“Thanks, Reverend Owen.” Reverend Owen shook John’s right hand while using his left hand to support John’s right forearm. John figured he was going to need all the support he could get. Gale force winds were coming his way, and he would have to deal with them soon.
John finally arrived home a few hours after Tilla and the children had left church. The children were in bed, and Tilla lay in bed reading another local newspaper. John walked into his bedroom exhausted from a day full of worriment.
“We waited on you, Mr. Davis,” Tilla said. She often called him Mr. Davis to let him know when she was upset about something. “You should’ve been here for dinner. The children wanted you to tell them a story. Did you forget that tonight is Christmas Eve?”
John looked at her and mustered a faint smile. She was even beautiful when she was mad.
John disrobed and scooted next to Tilla. “Honey, what’re you doing reading the competition?” John said.
Tilla ignored him.
Now that John was in bed next to her, she could feel his warmth. She felt safe. Her anger slaked. She put down the paper and turned off the light. Although she was no longer angry, John would have to pay for his transgression. If there had been any thoughts of lovemaking, there’d be none tonight. She turned from John.
John snuggled up to Tilla, settling in a spooning position, his left arm draped across her chest. He moved her long, silky, auburn hair, exposing the nape of her neck. He stared blankly at her neck for a few seconds, then kissed her gently on his favorite spot. He thought about telling her about White, but he demurred. No need to disturb her about such weighty matters at bedtime. He’d tell her in the morning. He turned over and went to sleep.