baby, but well, here I am. A miracle, she
always called me. But I’m getting ahead of myself. You wanted to hear about the
murder.”
“Yessir,” I mutter around
a mouthful of pie. Adam, I notice, has already polished his off.
“Well,” Mr. Thomas says,
“Daddy always said he didn’t do it, that he didn’t have a reason to do it. He
said the Jameson sisters were good to him. They gave him little jobs around
their house and paid him better than most white folks would. He was delivering
the sisters’ newspaper when it happened. He said Mildred Jameson had asked him
in to move a piece of furniture for her, and a white man was in the living room
with Helen. After that, he said, his memory always got foggy.
There was yelling and a
struggle and two gunshots. And then the white man fetched him a blow to the
head with a poker that knocked him out cold on the living room floor.”
The
black hand prints on Adam’s living room wall flash into my mind. If Charlie T
was knocked in the back of the head, he could have fallen into the wall,
bracing his hands against it as he slid to the floor. His hands would have been
black with the newsprint from the papers he had been delivering. “I know just
where he fell,” I say.
“So.” Adam finally finds
his voice. “If Charlie T saw the man who shot the Jameson sisters and hit him
in the head, why didn’t he tell the police?”
Mr. Thomas smiles, but
it’s not a happy smile, exactly. “You kids today can’t understand what it was
like back then. Nobody would have believed my daddy’s word over a white man’s.
Before the white boy knocked my daddy out, he told him, ‘If you say one word
about what really happened, you won’t live long enough to go to trial, and your
mama won’t live long enough to cry at your funeral. You say you did it, you’ll
serve your time and live to be an old man. If you say I did it...well,
accidents happen all the time, now don’t they? And wouldn’t it be a shame if
one of them happened to your mama or daddy or sister?”
My eyes are wet with
tears of anger, and when I look at Adam, his are, too. “But he never told you
the white boy’s name?”
Mr. Thomas shakes his
head. “No, he never did, no matter how much I begged him. He said he didn’t
want me to take it in my head to go and get revenge on that man. He said if I
tried to, I’d just wind up in jail myself. Daddy said the best way I could make
up for what happened to him was to stay in school and make something out of my
life.”
I look around the
spotless restaurant. “And you did.”
Mr. Thomas nods. “Yes, I did. And Daddy
got to see me graduate from college before he died, which he said was the
proudest day of his life. He seemed almost happy that day.”
“Just
almost?” Adam says.
“Almost was as close to
happy as he ever got,”Mr.Thomas says. “How could he be happy when he had had so
much of his life taken away from him? When his good name was ruined forever? It
gnawed at him, just like it still gnaws at me. Because of what they did to him,
Daddy was never at peace. Even when he died, he wasn’t at peace.”
“Your dad never dropped
any hints about who the killer could have been?” I ask.
“Never did. I remember
once, though, Mama let it slip that the boy who did it was the son of some big
man on the Wilder City Council at the time the murder happened. No colored
person stood a chance in the face of power like that, she said. But Daddy
shushed her before she could say anything else.”
“Well, that gives us
something to go on anyway,” I say.
Mr. Thomas smiles and
shakes his head. “If you kids want to, you can look up the names of all the
government officials in Wilder back then and see which ones of them had sons.
Probably most of them did. But you’re not gonna get far with this. Everybody
involved in the case is probably long dead. And you know what they say, ‘Dead
men tell no tales.’”
I think of my
conversations with Abigail and of
always called me. But I’m getting ahead of myself. You wanted to hear about the
murder.”
“Yessir,” I mutter around
a mouthful of pie. Adam, I notice, has already polished his off.
“Well,” Mr. Thomas says,
“Daddy always said he didn’t do it, that he didn’t have a reason to do it. He
said the Jameson sisters were good to him. They gave him little jobs around
their house and paid him better than most white folks would. He was delivering
the sisters’ newspaper when it happened. He said Mildred Jameson had asked him
in to move a piece of furniture for her, and a white man was in the living room
with Helen. After that, he said, his memory always got foggy.
There was yelling and a
struggle and two gunshots. And then the white man fetched him a blow to the
head with a poker that knocked him out cold on the living room floor.”
The
black hand prints on Adam’s living room wall flash into my mind. If Charlie T
was knocked in the back of the head, he could have fallen into the wall,
bracing his hands against it as he slid to the floor. His hands would have been
black with the newsprint from the papers he had been delivering. “I know just
where he fell,” I say.
“So.” Adam finally finds
his voice. “If Charlie T saw the man who shot the Jameson sisters and hit him
in the head, why didn’t he tell the police?”
Mr. Thomas smiles, but
it’s not a happy smile, exactly. “You kids today can’t understand what it was
like back then. Nobody would have believed my daddy’s word over a white man’s.
Before the white boy knocked my daddy out, he told him, ‘If you say one word
about what really happened, you won’t live long enough to go to trial, and your
mama won’t live long enough to cry at your funeral. You say you did it, you’ll
serve your time and live to be an old man. If you say I did it...well,
accidents happen all the time, now don’t they? And wouldn’t it be a shame if
one of them happened to your mama or daddy or sister?”
My eyes are wet with
tears of anger, and when I look at Adam, his are, too. “But he never told you
the white boy’s name?”
Mr. Thomas shakes his
head. “No, he never did, no matter how much I begged him. He said he didn’t
want me to take it in my head to go and get revenge on that man. He said if I
tried to, I’d just wind up in jail myself. Daddy said the best way I could make
up for what happened to him was to stay in school and make something out of my
life.”
I look around the
spotless restaurant. “And you did.”
Mr. Thomas nods. “Yes, I did. And Daddy
got to see me graduate from college before he died, which he said was the
proudest day of his life. He seemed almost happy that day.”
“Just
almost?” Adam says.
“Almost was as close to
happy as he ever got,”Mr.Thomas says. “How could he be happy when he had had so
much of his life taken away from him? When his good name was ruined forever? It
gnawed at him, just like it still gnaws at me. Because of what they did to him,
Daddy was never at peace. Even when he died, he wasn’t at peace.”
“Your dad never dropped
any hints about who the killer could have been?” I ask.
“Never did. I remember
once, though, Mama let it slip that the boy who did it was the son of some big
man on the Wilder City Council at the time the murder happened. No colored
person stood a chance in the face of power like that, she said. But Daddy
shushed her before she could say anything else.”
“Well, that gives us
something to go on anyway,” I say.
Mr. Thomas smiles and
shakes his head. “If you kids want to, you can look up the names of all the
government officials in Wilder back then and see which ones of them had sons.
Probably most of them did. But you’re not gonna get far with this. Everybody
involved in the case is probably long dead. And you know what they say, ‘Dead
men tell no tales.’”
I think of my
conversations with Abigail and of
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