The Bernice L. McFadden Collection. Bernice L. McFadden
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Chapter Thirty-Seven
The next day, the 28th of August, the stranger was little more than a foggy memory. Tass’s focus that morning was on the backyard.
Hemmingway’s once beautiful garden was now a patchwork of bald spots and weeds, and a toilet for stray cats.
As a child Tass had spent plenty of hours out there, playing house and helping her mother wash and hang the sheets. Back then, the small bit of yard was lush with vegetables and a rosebush heavy with pink blossoms.
Now, all that was left from that era were a rusted washtub, hoe, and shovel.
“I’m going to need some help with this,” Tass commented aloud.
She grabbed her purse and went out to her car. Tass would take the long way to the Piggly Wiggly—she didn’t want to ever lay eyes on that store again.
At the Piggly Wiggly, Tass stood behind people pushing shopping carts loaded with cases of water and canned goods. On the drive back, she passed cars with lumber and plywood tied to the roofs.
You would think it was the end of the world, Tass laughed to herself.
Later, she and Padagonia stood in the center of the yard outfitted in floppy hats, old T-shirts, and sweatpants. Scattered at their feet were vegetable seedlings, a young rosebush, a shiny new spade, and dozens of packets of flower seeds.
The sky above their heads was as clear as any I had ever seen.
“You start over there.” Tass pointed to the far left of the yard. “And I’ll tackle this area.
They raked, dug, pulled, and planted, and in less than an hour the two women were parched and clothes soaked with perspiration.
“Water break, boss?” Padagonia cried from her side of the yard.
Tass chuckled. “I think we both need one.”
They retreated into the kitchen, where Tass filled two glasses with ice water. Padagonia drained her glass before Tass could even steal a sip from hers.
“More, please.”
Outside, the crickets hummed and the horseflies buzzed in the shade.
Padagonia rubbed her belly. “You hungry?”
“I think I could eat,” Tass said.
“I got tuna fish already made. How does that sound to you?”
“Just fine.”
They walked across the road.
After Padagonia set the plates onto the table, she sauntered over to the television.
“Judge Judy is on.”
Tass shrugged. “I guess I can watch one case.”
The hours slipped by, and soon it was five o’clock. After a commercial promoting a weight-loss drink, the news came on. A pretty blue-eyed anchorwoman told the viewing audience that the top stories that evening included a hurricane which was moving rapidly into the Gulf of Mexico.
Padagonia stood up, stretched her long arms over her head, and announced that she was going to have a drink. When she opened the refrigerator door, Tass saw that it held at least eight six-packs of Pink Champale. Padagonia grabbed one six-pack from the shelf and allowed the door to swing shut. Tass turned off the television and followed her out to the porch.
The light was slowly draining from the sky. Down the street, a group of girls played hopscotch while a tight knit of boys watched. Observing the scene, Tass was suddenly flooded with a feeling of nostalgia.
Padagonia pushed a bottle at Tass. “Want one?”
Tass wasn’t a drinker and at first declined, and then swiftly changed her mind. “Yes, I think I will have one.” She unscrewed the top and tilted the bottle to her lips. The frothy sweetness was a pleasant surprise. “That’s really good,” she declared with a smack of her lips. She rolled the cold bottle across her forehead. “It sure was hot today.”
“Yes, it was,” Padagonia said, and then, “It’s too damn quiet out here.”
She disappeared into the house and came back with her transistor radio, which she set down on the windowsill.
“It’s oldies night,” Padagonia announced as she fiddled with the antenna.
Songs sung by Martha and the Vandellas, the Supremes, and Little Richard ushered the two women back through time.
“They don’t make music like that anymore,” Padagonia remarked wistfully.
“That is true.”
Padagonia opened a fresh bottle of Champale, took three swigs, and then set the bottle down between her feet. Casting her eyes up and down the street, she let off a soft, satisfied sigh. “It’s really very beautiful here.”
“Yeah, it is.”
“Good people. Christian people.”
“Uh-huh.”
“You would never think something so horrible happened in such a peaceful place.”
Tass glanced over at her friend. “What did you say?”
Padagonia reached for the bottle. “Just thinking out loud.”
They had been through it all before. Fifty years earlier, their young minds had twisted and turned with the effort of trying to understand why J.W. and Roy had done such a thing. That incident had opened up a world of horror for them. Fear and distrust surfaced where before there had been none.
J.W. and Roy didn’t just snatch the childhood away from Emmett; they stole it from every single black child in Mississippi.
Why did Padagonia have to go and make that comment? Now the evening was ruined. Tass stood to leave.
“You going?”
“Yeah, I’m gonna head in.”
“You want another Pink Champale?”
“No thanks.”
“Suit yourself,” Padagonia huffed.
* * *
That night, Tass dreamed she was standing on the porch in her nightgown. Once again, the dark stranger emerged from the grass and waved. Tass waved back.
The person stepped into the moonlight and Tass could see that it was a young man. Head bowed, he inched toward the curb and stopped. He seemed to be contemplating the road. He slid his foot over the edge of the sidewalk and set the toe of his shoe against the blacktop, as if testing the temperature of bathwater. Confident, he then placed his entire foot flat on the surface. The other foot followed.
He did not walk; he lumbered like an old person or a toddler taking his first steps. When he reached Tass’s side of the street, he seemed winded and leaned against a nearby tree.
He must be sick, Tass thought, or maybe drunk.
“You all right?”
The man raised his hand and nodded.
“You sure?”
Again, the nod.
The stranger moved away from the tree and shuffled closer. He wore the night like a cape, so even in the moonlight Tass couldn’t make out his features.
“You need something?”
He opened his mouth, and Tass was sure she heard a swishing sound. No, not swishing, Tass thought, lapping, like water against a shore.
“Huh?” She cocked her right ear in his direction and asked if he wouldn’t mind repeating himself, and this time what emanated from his mouth was a gurgle of words wrapped in fathoms of water.
Tass was growing impatient. “Speak up!” she