Tennessee - A Short Story by Afrika

Tennessee

            I hadn't seen the sun for three days.  At first, the rain was a welcome change, since Montgomery County had gone so long without it.  I enjoyed sitting on the porch with my little sister, Danielle, watching the lightning dance around the countryside, and falling asleep to the sound of thunder.  Eventually, however, I got tired of jumping over puddles and cleaning mud stains off of my clothes. 

            By Friday morning, the sky was finally shades of purple instead of grey.  Miller's Ridge was about half a mile from my house and it was the best place to watch the sun rise, so I crept out of the house, being careful to tiptoe over the floor boards that creaked.  I walked out to the ridge by the maple tree and lifted myself into the canopy so I could watch the blues, pinks and oranges of the sun peek over the hill. There was nothing like the beginning of summer.

            When I returned to the house, my family, including Uncle Junior, was crowded around the table about to eat breakfast.

            "What are you doing here?" I asked Junior, smiling.  "I wasn't expecting you for another couple of days."

            “You know I'm always full of surprises, Nicole.  Come over here and give your uncle some sugar.” 

            I waited for Junior to take one more drag from his cigarette and place it in the ashtray before I hugged him.  As usual, he smelled of Champagne cologne and his embrace was strong.

            “How’d you get down here?  I didn’t see the Cadillac out front,”  I teased, as Junior finished his smoke.

            “Tyrone, Marcellus and them got the Cadillac.  They already at the club, checkin’ things out.”  Junior walked over to Mama, who was bringing breakfast in from the kitchen.  Mama looked a lot older than she really was, mostly because, as with the Lord, every day was like a thousand years.  “Izzie, Nicole is pretty much a woman now, huh?“

            “Pretty much  isn’t the same as fully grown, Joseph.”  Mama refused to call him Junior, because she insisted that people should be called by their given name.  Junior had tried to make the point to her, several times, that he was Junior -- Joseph Givens, Jr., after grandpa -- but changing Mama’s mind was like changing a car tire without a jack. 

            Junior directed his attention back to me.  “So whatchu got planned for the summer, Baby Girl?”

            “Not much.  Just hanging around here, I guess.”

            All the food was on the table, and Daddy was just about to stick a forkful of eggs into his mouth when Mama reminded him that he forgot to bless his food.  Daddy nodded, and continued to eat.

            “A beautiful girl like you should be spendin’ her summers with someone special,” Junior said.  “What’s happenin’ wit Ronnie Jordan?”

            “He’s looking for work,” I said, blushing.

            “Don’t come in here filling her mind with that street garbage, Joseph,” Mama said.

            “When you gon’ ease up on me, Izzie?  It’s like I can’t ever open my mouth witout chu jumpin’ down my throat.”

            “Joseph --”  Mama started, but Junior turned away from her.

            “William, I’ll see you later.”

            Daddy got up from the table and asked Junior to stay, but Mama had succeeded in making him feel unwelcome -- again.   

            I locked the door behind Junior and watched him walk down the road.  His skin was like dark brown sugar, and his walk was just as sweet.  There’s a kind of strut a man has when he knows he commands attention.  Junior had been that way even before he left Clarksville ten years

before, in the summer of ‘55.   Tennessee had never been Junior’s scene, so when his friend Tyrone called to let him know about some jobs in Harlem, Junior packed up and used what little money he had for a one-way bus ticket.   Working in Harlem gave Junior the status he had always wanted, and although it developed in the world of  drugs and guns, I couldn’t help but admire him.

            After having worked the streets for less than a year, Junior had enough money to buy, and enough skill to manage three night clubs and after-hours food joints uptown.   By the time he was twenty-three, Junior hired a few managers to run things in Harlem while he spent the summers with us in Clarksville -- visiting family and managing Junior’s Paradise by the Cumberland River.  At the end of each summer, at least one family would pack up and follow him back to New York.  That’s why Daddy started calling him the Chocolate Messiah.  Everyone admired Junior because he wasn’t afraid of anyone -- a luxury that those of us who still lived in Klan occupied territory could only experience vicariously for the three months he was there.

            Later on in the week, Ronnie and I walked over to Junior’s to check out the scene.  The club was in a one-story brick building, with a green and red florescent sign outside.  Junior’s Paradise was written in script, and the windows were draped with black curtains.  “If you don’t pay to party, you don’t get to see anything, either,” Junior had said.  I think he even had a sign made up to that effect posted near the entrance.  The area around the bar was dim, and Seduction was practicing.

            “They already have a guy playing the sax,” Ronnie said, “and he’s really good.”

            “Yeah, but so are you, “ I said.

             “Hey, what’s goin’ on, y’all?” Junior asked, as he got up and hugged us both.  When he backed away, his jacket opened, and I saw the .38 in his shoulder holster.

            “You takin’ care of Miss Aphrodite over here, Ronnie?”

            “I’m trying to.  You know she’s a handful, Uncle Junior.”

            “Yeah, but she’s a beautiful one.  Ain't that right?”

            “Sure is,” Ronnie responded, looking over at me and smiling.          

            “So what may I do for yall?”  Junior asked us.

            “I want to play for Seduction, so I want you to hear my sound.  You got a second?”

            I knew Ronnie could play because he was holding a saxophone the day I met him.  It was my 

first day in fifth grade, and we were learning about music.  The racial climate was still very charged, so Ronnie and I were left in the corner fiddling with our instruments while the rest of the class was lectured on how they were expected to tolerate us little negro children.  That kind of thing went on all the time, where the teacher would talk to the rest of the class like I wasn’t even there, and it always made me nervous.  It didn’t seem to bother Ronnie at all. All he could see was that horn.

            Mama had told us all about how Reverend Jordan’s grandson was coming to live with him from New York City, and I was probably the only one in the whole school who was happy to see Ronnie.  It got lonely being the only colored child in fifth grade.  That day in class, as I was sitting next to Ronnie, with my little flute shaking in my hand, he looked up at me, smiled that smile, winked at me and held my hand.  I had never left his side since. 

            Ronnie added something special to his performance that day.  He picked up his saxophone and whipped up a mixture of jazz, blues and slow-drag tunes something powerful.  As he played, I could hear the words of the songs in my mind, but it was much different than listening to a voice.  I could feel the sound throughout my whole body -- in my feet, hands and everything.  My skin tingled as if Ronnie were touching me, and I almost felt dizzy.  I closed my eyes and let the music carry me for a while.  I didn't open them until he finished.

            "My God, boy!" Uncle Junior said.  "Where did you learn to play like that?"

            "My father taught me when we lived in Harlem," Ronnie answered.

            "Get out of here.  I didn't know you used to live uptown.  Did your father play in any clubs?" Junior asked.

            "Yeah, he used to play in Small's”

            "What's his name?"

            "Sammy Jordan."

            "You gotta be kiddin’ me!"

            "Yeah.  Did you know him?"

            "Yeah, I knew him.  It was all about Sammy Jordan when I first moved up there,"  Uncle Junior responded, lighting a cigarette.  "Now you know I already got Jesse on the sax, but he’s a tenor.  You could play alto if yall don't mind workin’ together."

            "Mind?  No, I wouldn’t mind.  I've been dying to play for people.  I want them to know my sound."

            "Do you think Ronnie's good enough to play in the city?" I asked.

            "I most definitely do.  The band already got they set ready for tonight, so you should come back tomorrow after church to get wit Jesse."

            "Cool."

            Reverend Jordan was sitting at the kitchen table with Mama and Daddy when I got back home.

            "What's going on, Daddy?" I asked.

            "The Klan tried to bomb the church while your Mama and the Reverend were leading a prayer meeting this afternoon."

            "Did anyone get hurt?"

            "No, praise the Lord," Reverend Jordan said, "but we might not be so lucky next time."

            "Daddy, are you going to tell Uncle Junior?" I asked.

            "Child, we need to pray," Reverend Jordan said.

            "Reverend's right, Nicole," Mama said with her head lowered.  "The Lord is our redeemer."

            "Come on, Mama. Where is God when the Klan is trying to burn the church down?"

            "Nicole, that's enough!" Mama yelled.

            "Nicole has a point, Izzie," Daddy said.  "Perhaps yall need someone looking over things at the church."

            "William!"

            "No one has to get hurt, now.  Just someone to make sure that no one falls into harm's way.  The Lord says to be wise as serpents and harmless as doves.  Pay attention to what came first."

            Reverend Jordan picked his Bible up off the table and told us to pray about the situation.  I felt bad for shouting at Mama, but I wanted her to be stronger, and I didn't like how much she depended on the Reverend.  It was already rumored in town that Mama and Reverend shared more than just a spiritual relationship, and her spending so much time with him didn't help any.

            After a really great set on the Fourth of July, Ronnie came down from the stage, took my hand, and lead me toward the back of the club. 

            "Where are we going, Ronnie?" I asked.

            "Uncle Junior’s office."

            I closed the door behind us.  Ronnie turned on the lamp on the end table as we sat on the black leather couch, and he just stared at the ground.

            “What’s going on, Ronnie?”

            "Do you ever feel like running away?" Ronnie asked.

            "All the time.  Do you?" I asked, curiously.  "I mean, I know your grandpa's kind of strict, but I thought things were okay."

            "Yeah, Grandpa's cool and all that, but I'm tired of Clarksville."

            "Do you remember much about Harlem?" I asked, as I moved closer to him. 

            "I remember that it was fun.  There's nothing to do here.  I don't hate it, but I don't want to get stuck here, you know?"

            "Well, we won't be here forever."

            "I don't know, Nikki.  I don't think I can stay here any longer."

            I knew it.  He was planning on leaving with Uncle Junior, and this was to be goodbye, or something like it.  "Ronnie --"

            "No, listen Nikki.  I been thinking about this a lot, and I want us to go to New York with Junior.  I know it's a big step --"

            "Wait, you said 'us,' like you want me to go too?"

            "I don't just want you to go with me.  I want to you to be my wife.  I mean, I love you and if you'll have me, I want us to get married and go to New York and live there."

            "Ronnie --"

            "I'm not finished.  I told your Uncle that I wanted to marry you, and so he let me do some jobs on the side so I could get this for you."

            Ronnie pulled a little black velvet box out of his pocket and opened it as he got down on one knee.  I had tried, in vain,  to hold my composure the whole time.

            "Nicole Marie Givens, I love you.  You've been my best friend for as long as I can remember.  I know you'd be giving up some things that are really important to come away with me to New York, but I promise to take care of you.  I just want you to please be my wife."

            He slid the ring gently on to my finger and kissed my hand.  "Will you marry me, Nicole?"

            "Yes, Ronnie.  Yes, I'll marry you," I exclaimed and hugged him, getting the side of his face all wet with my tears. 

            Suddenly, I heard sounds like firecrackers, and I got excited, because I thought the fireworks show had started by the river, but then I heard the horrified screams.  The firecrackers were gun shots.  I looked out of the window to see if we could escape that way, and that’s when I saw the hooded men running off into the woods. 

            “Ronnie, look!”  I screamed.  Ronnie's eyes turned a shade of crimson that I had never seen before.  "What are we going to do?"

            "I'm going out there."

            "No, you can't!  You'll get shot!"

            "What do you think's going to happen to us if we stay in here?"

            "Oh my God," I screamed, when I heard the next three shots.

            Before I could convince Ronnie to flee with me, the office door burst open.  It was Uncle Junior.  He was out of breath and he had blood stains on his face and shirt.

            "What happened?"

            "No time for questions, girl!  We gotta go," Uncle Junior yelled. 

            The three of us ran out of the empty club to where Tyrone was waiting with the car, past the burning cross and the three hooded bodies lying on the ground -- the hoods more red than white.  I knew better than to ask any questions.  I just jumped into the car with Uncle Junior and Ronnie.  Tyrone had moved into the passenger seat, and Uncle Junior drove off as I snuggled up with Ronnie in the back seat.  I didn't say anything for a while, even as we passed the Tennessee state line.

© 1998 Afrika Afeni Mills