that he might not run.
It took little to fuel speculation about anything when it came to local elections.
Miss Callie clung to the old-fashioned belief that eating in restaurants was a waste of money, and therefore sinful. Her list of potential sins was longer than most folks', especially mine. It took almost six months to convince her to go to Claude's for a Thursday lunch. I argued that if I paid, then we wouldn't be wasting her money. She wouldn't be guilty of any transgression, and if I got hit with another one I really didn't care. Dining out was certainly the most benign in my inventory.
I wasn't worried about being seen in downtown Clanton with a black woman. I didn't care what people said. I wasn't worried about having the only white face in Claude's. What really concerned me, and what almost kept me from suggesting the idea in the first place, was the challenge of getting Miss Callie in and out of my Triumph Spitfire. It wasn't built for hefty folks like her.
She and Esau owned an old Buick that had once held all eight children. Add another hundred pounds and Miss Callie could still slide in and out of the front seat with ease.
She was not getting smaller. Her high blood pressure and high cholesterol were of great concern to her children. She was sixty years old and healthy, but trouble was looming.
We walked to the street and she peered down at my car. It was March and windy with a chance of rain, so the convertible top was up. In its closed state, the two-seater looked even smaller.
'I'm not sure this is going to work,' she announced. It had taken six months to get her that far; we were not turning back. I opened the passenger door and she approached with great caution.
'Any suggestions?' she said.
'Yes, try the rear-end-first method.'
It worked, eventually, and when I started the engine we were shoulder to shoulder. 'White folks sure drive some funny cars,' she said, as frightened as if she were flying in a small plane for the first time. I popped the clutch, spun the tires, and we were off, slinging gravel and laughing.
I parked in front of the office and helped her out. Getting in was far easier. Inside, I introduced her to Margaret Wright and Davey Bigmouth Bass, and I gave her a tour. She was curious about the offset press because the paper now looked so much better. 'Who does the proofreading around here?' she whispered.
'You do,' I said. We were averaging three mistakes per week, according to her. I still got the list every Thursday over lunch.
We took a stroll around the square and eventually made it to Claude's, the black cafe next to City Cleaners. Claude had been in business for many years and served the best food in town. He didn't need menus because you ate whatever he happened to be cooking that day. Wednesday was catfish and Friday was barbecue, but for the other four days you didn't know what you would eat until Claude told you. He greeted us in a dirty apron and pointed to a table at the front window. The cafe was half-full and we got some curious stares.
Oddly enough, Miss Callie had never met Claude. I had assumed that every black person in Clanton had at one time bumped into every other one, but Miss Callie explained that was not the case. Claude lived out in the country, and there was an awful rumor over in Lowtown that he did not go to church. She had never been anxious to meet him. They had attended a funeral together years earlier, but had not met.
I introduced them, and when Claude put her name with her face he said, 'The Ruffin family. All them doctors.'
'PhD's,' Miss Callie said, correcting him.
Claude was loud and gruff and charged for his food and did not go to church, so Miss Callie immediately disliked him. He took the hint, didn't really care, and went off to yell at someone in the back. A waitress brought us iced tea and corn bread, and Miss Callie didn't like either. The tea was weak and almost sugarless, according to her, and the corn bread lacked enough salt and was served at room temperature, an unforgivable offense.
'It's a restaurant, Miss Callie,' I said in a low voice. 'Would you relax?'
'I'm trying.'
'No you're not. How can we enjoy a meal if you're frowning at everything?'
'That's a pretty bow tie.'
'Thank you.'
My upgraded wardrobe had pleased no one more than Miss Callie. Negroes liked to dress up and were very fashion conscious, she explained to me. She still referred to herself as a Negro.
In the wake of the civil rights movement and the complicated issues it had spun, it was difficult to know exactly what to call blacks. The older, more dignified ones like Miss Callie preferred to be called 'Negroes.' A notch below them on the social ladder were 'coloreds.'
Though I had never heard Miss Callie use the word, it was not uncommon for upper blacks to refer to the lowest of their kind as 'niggers.'
I could not begin to understand the labels and classes, so I adhered strictly to the safety of 'blacks.' Those on my side of the tracks had an entire dictionary to describe blacks, little of which was endearing.
At that moment, I was the only non-Negro in Claude's, and this bothered no one.
'What y'all eatin'?' Claude yelled from the counter. A blackboard advertised Texas chili, fried chicken, and pork chops. Miss Callie knew the chicken and pork would be sub-par, so we both ordered chili.
I got a gardening report. The winter greens were especially nice. She and Esau were preparing to plant the summer crop. The
She wanted to talk about 'poor Mr. Hank Hooten.' She remembered him well from the trial, though he had never spoken to the jury. I passed along the latest news. He was now living in a room with padded walls, where he would remain for some time.
The restaurant filled up quickly. Claude walked by with an armload of plates and said, 'Y'all finished, time to go.' She pretended to be insulted by this, but Claude was famous for telling people to leave as soon as they were finished. On Fridays, when a few whites ventured in for barbeque and the place was packed, he put a clock on his customers and said, loudly, 'You got twenty minutes.'
She pretended to dislike the experience—the idea itself, the restaurant, the cheap tablecloth, the food, Claude, the prices, the crowd, everything. But it was an act. She was secretly delighted to be taken to lunch by a well-dressed young white man. It had not happened to any of her friends.
As I gently pulled her out of the car back in Lowtown, she reached into her purse and took out a small scrap of paper. Only two typos that week; oddly, both were in classifieds, an area that Margaret handled.
I walked her to the house. 'That wasn't so bad now, was it?' I said.
'I enjoyed it. Thank you. Are you coming next Thursday?' She asked the same question each week. The answer was the same too.
Chapter 27
At noon on the Fourth of July the temperature was 101 degrees and the humidity felt even higher. The parade was led by the Mayor, even though he was not yet running for anything. State and local elections were in 1971. The presidential race was in 1972. Judicial elections were in 1973. Municipal elections were in 1974. Mississippians loved voting almost as much as football.
The Mayor sat on the rear seat of a 1962 Corvette and threw candy to the children packed along the sidewalks around the square. Behind him were two high school bands, Clanton's and Karaway's, the Boy Scouts, Shriners on mini-bikes, a new fire truck, a dozen floats, a posse on horseback, veterans from every war that century, a collection of shiny new cars from the Ford dealer, and three restored John Deere tractors. Juror number
