“Bobby Joe’s never said no to Emily in his whole life. So why don’t you come Wednesday afternoon, one-thirty. Em, you come, too.” She extended her hand to him. When he took it, it felt smooth and surprisingly cool. She smiled. “My name is Wilson Claybourne. What’s yours?”
Chapter Seven
Dale Billings was speaking to SNCC headquarters in Jackson when Mendelsohn dropped into the chair opposite. Billings was staring at the phone, seemingly unaware that Ted had even come in.
“J. Edgar Hoover said he’s opening an office?” Billings’s voice became strident. “Down in Neshoba? Be the first fucking office the FBI’s got in Tildon’s state if it’s true! Keep me posted. It’s lonely up here.” He hung up and saw the reporter. His long slender fingers beat a tattoo on the old desk. “Nothing new on the boys.” A sardonic smile creased his intent young face. “But the shit’s hit the fan in all the big papers up north. Mickey Schwerner and Andy Goodman, two white guys, are missing. So Jackson says J. Edgar’s gonna have to look interested. Word from Washington is he’s going to open an office down here.” His scornful voice filled the empty Freedom House. “After how many years? How many lynchings? How many burned down churches? How many black brothers gone missing or shot? Now two white civil rights workers, Mickey and Andy, go missing, and the FBI is going to open an office in Missafuckingsippi? I wish I could still laugh. It’s fucking pathetic.” He took a deep breath and pointed to the ham sandwich on the desk before him. “You want part of this? You been gone all morning, you must be hungry.”
“Hell, no. Unlike some of my brothers, I do like ham. But that sandwich looks as tired as you.” Even at the Ohio orientation Ted had thought Dale looked drawn, his eyes too large in his thin face. Rail-skinny, he thought. And the bottled intensity in the youngster seemed ready to spill now that he was back in the Delta. His fingers never seemed at rest, tapping a staccato accompaniment to his speech. The kid’s been waiting for this summer, Ted reflected, feeling everything, and not taking care of himself.
He walked to the ancient ice box and took out a quart of milk and placed it next to Dale’s sandwich. “Eat your lunch, Dale. You look like a poster child for the Salvation Army.”
“Still being my Jewish mama, Ted?”
“Well, your kin are down in Tunica, so I’m the only man in Magnolia County that knows you don’t know how to take care of yourself. So eat your pork and drink your milk.”
Dale slapped the desk, his laughter cascading. “Mercy, mercy!”
“You’ve been on the pipe most of the night with Jackson? You’ve got to get some sleep. Things are just getting started down here now that the students have arrived. They’ll need your help. Nobody knows Shiloh and Magnolia County like you do.”
Billings raised his hands in mock surrender. “Breeding, Mendelsohn. How many people you know have cousins in Magnolia County, Missafuckingsippi? That’s why I am so knowledgeable. Been a captive audience to my father’s second wife whose family is still in Tunica, just down the road. I’ve been down here on school holidays since before Emmett Till was killed over in Money. That was a cautionary lesson for a nice northern Negro like myself. Lucky for me, I never learned to whistle. What I don’t know, I can usually find out. Not talent, just breeding, Mendelsohn.”
Dale Billings always broke him up. Ever since the magazine had sent Mendelsohn to cover the first demonstration when Howard students picketed the Woolworth’s in Washington. Max had been prescient about its newsworthiness. Dale Billings had been the cheerleader, seemingly oblivious to the catcalls from a hostile crowd of whites that swiftly had gathered. His tough welterweight body was in constant motion, leading the students, what do we want, when do we want it , chanting, clapping, freedom! freedom! now! now!
Chapter Seven
Dale Billings was speaking to SNCC headquarters in Jackson when Mendelsohn dropped into the chair opposite. Billings was staring at the phone, seemingly unaware that Ted had even come in.
“J. Edgar Hoover said he’s opening an office?” Billings’s voice became strident. “Down in Neshoba? Be the first fucking office the FBI’s got in Tildon’s state if it’s true! Keep me posted. It’s lonely up here.” He hung up and saw the reporter. His long slender fingers beat a tattoo on the old desk. “Nothing new on the boys.” A sardonic smile creased his intent young face. “But the shit’s hit the fan in all the big papers up north. Mickey Schwerner and Andy Goodman, two white guys, are missing. So Jackson says J. Edgar’s gonna have to look interested. Word from Washington is he’s going to open an office down here.” His scornful voice filled the empty Freedom House. “After how many years? How many lynchings? How many burned down churches? How many black brothers gone missing or shot? Now two white civil rights workers, Mickey and Andy, go missing, and the FBI is going to open an office in Missafuckingsippi? I wish I could still laugh. It’s fucking pathetic.” He took a deep breath and pointed to the ham sandwich on the desk before him. “You want part of this? You been gone all morning, you must be hungry.”
“Hell, no. Unlike some of my brothers, I do like ham. But that sandwich looks as tired as you.” Even at the Ohio orientation Ted had thought Dale looked drawn, his eyes too large in his thin face. Rail-skinny, he thought. And the bottled intensity in the youngster seemed ready to spill now that he was back in the Delta. His fingers never seemed at rest, tapping a staccato accompaniment to his speech. The kid’s been waiting for this summer, Ted reflected, feeling everything, and not taking care of himself.
He walked to the ancient ice box and took out a quart of milk and placed it next to Dale’s sandwich. “Eat your lunch, Dale. You look like a poster child for the Salvation Army.”
“Still being my Jewish mama, Ted?”
“Well, your kin are down in Tunica, so I’m the only man in Magnolia County that knows you don’t know how to take care of yourself. So eat your pork and drink your milk.”
Dale slapped the desk, his laughter cascading. “Mercy, mercy!”
“You’ve been on the pipe most of the night with Jackson? You’ve got to get some sleep. Things are just getting started down here now that the students have arrived. They’ll need your help. Nobody knows Shiloh and Magnolia County like you do.”
Billings raised his hands in mock surrender. “Breeding, Mendelsohn. How many people you know have cousins in Magnolia County, Missafuckingsippi? That’s why I am so knowledgeable. Been a captive audience to my father’s second wife whose family is still in Tunica, just down the road. I’ve been down here on school holidays since before Emmett Till was killed over in Money. That was a cautionary lesson for a nice northern Negro like myself. Lucky for me, I never learned to whistle. What I don’t know, I can usually find out. Not talent, just breeding, Mendelsohn.”
Dale Billings always broke him up. Ever since the magazine had sent Mendelsohn to cover the first demonstration when Howard students picketed the Woolworth’s in Washington. Max had been prescient about its newsworthiness. Dale Billings had been the cheerleader, seemingly oblivious to the catcalls from a hostile crowd of whites that swiftly had gathered. His tough welterweight body was in constant motion, leading the students, what do we want, when do we want it , chanting, clapping, freedom! freedom! now! now!
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