Lissy

By Morgan Charles

LISSY, the daughter of a black farmer in the Mississippi Delta, is surrounded by bigotry. It is a story enveloped by racial unrest. She dares to rise above it. Her roots are traced back to her Great-great-grandmother, a former slave named Sara Benten, whose diary inspires her to fight for what is right. Lissy finds love as well as freedom.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Morgan Charles
• Release date: Oct 30, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452366401

Book preview

LISSY

By

Morgan Charles

Morgan Charles is an accomplished photographer, actor, journalists and poet. As an award winning author and recipient of the Churchill Award for Excellence and Outstanding performance he continually pushes beyond normal limits.

It was late in the afternoon Mr. Charles noticed a young beautiful black girl playing along a river bank in the heart of the Mississippi Delta. It was at that very moment the seed of his latest work of fiction began to germinate in his mind. Lissy was born.

Copyright 2010 C. L. Vinson

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CHAPTER 1 -- THE RIVER

"I watch’d the aft’rnoon light stretch across harvest’d fields of cotton, rich black gumbo broken loose from root an’ stem. As ifin’ it were yest’rday, the aromas of field work have pass’d b’fore my memories. These same roads, woods an’ haunts have simply grown old like me. Strange how time seems ta wash ‘way the scars of the land, but not the scars cut deep into my soul.

Time itself crawls ‘cross the farmland an’ my brow. As ifin’ the horror of slavery were an eternity ago – A nightmare driven ‘way by the torch of freedom.

I’m eighty-five an’ have return’d here. Some have ask’d how I rememb’r dates aft’r so many years. What woman fo’gets her child’s birth o’ her own. Admitt’dly, I’ve not rememb’r everythin’, but the important thin’s I do as ifin’ it’s fresh like this mornins’ biscuits. I have decid’d ta put this in a journal so none would fo’get.

"It’s the fo’gettin’ that caus’d the crime. The fo’gettin’ of those we lov’d an’ those we fo’gave. As slaves we struggl’d for hope, but as freed slaves we fought hard’r. We have pass’d through death ta live, an’ livin’ sure ain’t dyin’. I’ve seen ‘nough dyin’. O’r enemy, the ov’rseers an’ mast’rs, have been replac’d by prejudices that rose up in the evils of men, devour’d goodness an’ forcin’ it ta run an’ hide. Ifin’ for no other reason I must write down my memories for the children ta come.

"Fo’givin’ ain’t the same as fo’gettin’.

"April 12th, 1928 Sara Benten (former slave)"

Distant chatter along the Sunflower River woke Melissa Jipson who had fallen asleep beneath huge willows. Gnarled limbs leaned out into the waters with hanging viny whips sweeping back and forth against the wind. The slow current pulled on them gently. Sounds of voices echoed off the opposite bank to her ears. Masculine words grew louder like stones skipping across ripples. Soupbone, her dog, nudged against her leg.

Melissa had raised this old blue-tick hound; his mama killed along the highway by a pulpwood truck headed for the mill. She had found the dog trying to nurse off the dead bitch’s swollen tit. Soupbone lifted his elongated head and looked up north to the wide bend of the Sunflower. Melissa braced herself on her elbows drawing her legs close. Her eyes squinted, blocking out the sun, searching out the late afternoon shadows. She lowered her fishing pole deeper into the water to hide it from unwanted glances.

Three bare-chested white boys floated down the river with the current on large inner tubes wearing cut-offs, their skin bronzed from the hot southern sun. Melissa recognized them. Along with Billy Pratt were Kenny Tyler and David Matthews.

Melissa moved up behind the thick trunk willows and hid. She listened to the laughter and conversation as the boys drifted near.

I’m tellin’ ya, Billy. Darlene is crazy ‘bout ya. Hell, my own sister said as much. Kenny Tyler shouted over his right shoulder. He was a skinny runt of a boy. But he could be meaner than a rain soaked rooster when cornered. Mostly though, Kenny was all talk. And talk he did. His red hair glowed like beets in the sunlight, body covered in freckles. Thin arms paddled backwards waiting for a reply from Billy Pratt.

I ain’t got nothin’ to do with that fat-butt Darlene. Billy Pratt lunged toward the boy. His inner tube slapped hollow like a belly flop. Billy swam hard grasping Kenny’s float. Ya say one more word ‘bout it and I’ll punch ya in the mouth."

Well, Billy, David Matthews began, ifin’ ya ain’t wantin’ to get close to Darlene, then why was ya lookin’ at her so hard at Mr. Dobb’s drugstore last Saturday night?

Billy whipped his head around. His glare froze in the hot air. I wasn’t starin’ at that toad!

David laughed. Then what was ya doin’? Your eyes sparkl’d with that stray coon dawg look, Billy.

Damnit, Davie! Billy pushed away from Kenny and swam back to his own inner tube. Ya knows why I was there.

Yep, we all do. And what did ya get out of it? Kenny’s nose poked red at the others accusingly.

She ain’t the type. I was gonna. I swear. She even unbutton’d her blouse and all. But, she start’d talkin’ ‘bout her mom. She couldn’t stop cryin’.

Kenny chuckled.

David grinned. That was when she hugg’d ya, huh?

Damnit! Billy kicked the water. She ain’t really as bad as I was puttin’ on. Darlene needs a friend, that’s all.

Billy, you’re a fine one, first callin’ Darlene a toad whiles talkin’ ta us, then actin’ different with her. David shook his head.

It ain’t that at all, Davie. It’s just…

Soupbone leaped out from the shadows and barked wildly at the boys. He pranced up and down the bank bouncing on his front paws.

"What the…?’ Billy flinched.

Oh, it’s that crazy dawg belongin’ to that strange color’d girl down the road, Kenny answered. He flipped a handful of water at the hound. It turned to spray halfway.

Stop teas’n my dawg! Melissa jumped out from behind the willows.

Girl, ya best be watchin’ how ya talk! Kenny screamed shrill. Take yo’r flea bag dawg out of here.

Melissa stood arms akimbo, legs spread shoulder width, chin out, and lips set tight. Ya’ll on my river.

Kenny sat straight up in his inner tube. Ya is as crazy as yo’ dawg, girl. The Sunflower’s been here since the Injuns. And God put them here. Now git! Ya’ll color’ds ain’t got nothin’ nohows. Ya’ll ain’t nothin’ but a bunch of sharecroppin’ no counts.

Soupbone waded into the river up to his stomach. He growled at the boy’s tone. Teeth bared. The low snarl ushered in the silence.

Billy eased up to Kenny and David. This is dumb. I gotta be at my Daddy’s store soon.

Listen up, Girl, Kenny said as he pushed Billy away. Ya better r’member yo’ place. Yo’r color’d, poor an’ less than human. Darwin had it right.

Melissa moved waist deep into the water toward him.

What’cha gonna do, girl? Huh? Kenny began to paddle to the bank towards her.

Stop this, Kenny! shouted David. That dawg will bite the hell out’ a ya.

Yeah, yo’r right. Screw this, Kenny replied. There’ll be ‘nother time. I promise ya.

Let’s go, boys, Billy said. He glanced over to Melissa.

She never moved.

The boys drifted down the river out of sight.

An old snapping turtle climbed up on a fallen tree partially submerged in the water. His shell shined in the daylight as he crawled, dragging his armored belly. Black claws stuck out from webbed feet. A scaled tail followed. The large turtle stopped at a rotted knothole and cantered to the right.

Melissa frowned stooping down she picked up a baseball sized rock and threw it at the reptile. Here’s for eat’n my fish. The stone ricocheted off the water logged trunk inches from the turtle’s head. He quickly dove into the river with a splash and disappeared.

Soupbone lapped up the cold water.

Melissa dipped her dust covered feet, feeling the clear river wash over her toes and ankles. This was her favorite spot to daydream and fish. It was her place to escape, her place to watch the slow current pull the troubles of 1963 down river far from the Mississippi Delta.

Refreshed, she gathered up her cane pole and a burlap sack holding two large catfish. Glancing once more down the river where the three boys disappeared around the bend, she turned and walked up the sloping embankment, over the ridge toward a path cutting through nearby green fields. The hot August sun tanned the black gumbo bordering the deep plowed furrows of tall cotton. Grasshoppers flew, dodging hungry redwing blackbirds. A cool breeze floated lazily up from the river. Sweet summer danced across soybean leaves and rattling corn stalks. Seventy-three acres of rich land stretched around the northern end of a hickory grove. A few stubborn oaks and pines stood defiant along the weathered split rail fence. The hand-sawn beams wormed over a low rise.

This parcel of precious land meant something. It meant the Jipson family lasted beyond words, beyond money. The very soil, fertile black gumbo of the Mississippi Delta, held them together, bound to the earth.

A huge whitetail deer headed east broke loose on the footpath. Melissa ran through the cornfield in pursuit – tracking the buck. Soupbone followed close.

Melissa breathed hard. That there buck sure got ‘imself a run, huh, Soupbone? She knelt down, her hands tracing the hurried hoof prints. Her skin glistened like rich gold; the shade of fresh baked bread. Long, full ebony hair caressed her slender shoulders. Rare green eyes stared alert from her youthful face. The crusty gumbo, now hard and brittle, broke like crackers under her slender weight. At five foot six, she was a firm well-figured young girl of seventeen.

Soupbone licked sweat from her face.

Melissa’s daddy had mentioned how he believed a dog needed love as much as youngins’. The hound rolled over, twisting this way and that, scratching his back – legs up and bent against Melissa’s ribs. Yo’r so spoil’d. Melissa laughed throwing herself on top of his muscular belly. The dog wrestled to get free, digging into the dirt. A stray cat startled, jumped up out of a nest of dried leaves. Soupbone spun around in a dust cloud, and ran after the feline.

Soupbone! Melissa called. Stupid dawg ain’t got a chance. She walked to the edge of the field. Studying the hard packed road she noticed how the deer’s trail vanished in the tire tracks. Melissa flung a dirt clod into the corn, heard it scatter through the bowed sword like leaves, and land with a thud. Her bare feet grew hot in the unsheltered sun. Behind her, bursting out of the field Soupbone ran up to her with his grayish-blue tongue swaying from neck to snout.

Melissa scratched her dog’s neck. White boys. They ain’t got sense ‘nough to spit, Soupbone.

Thunderstorms, brewing in the west, tumbled into the peaceful delta sky backlit behind dark purple clouds, patches of pale blue flickered with electric white, pulsated to admiral blue then back to dark purple pushing the crack and whip of thunder. Melissa smelled the struggle of rain as it burst downward. She walked home under these darkening skies. The scent of dust-coated rain filled her nostrils causing her to look up, caught a glimpse of the sun peeking through lacy breaks in the clouds. Her daddy had explained this was a sign of the devil beating his wife – tears falling under the blazing fire of ole slew foot. A lively tingle rushed through the root hairs on her arms. A swirling energy held her captive.

She loved the rain. The purity of the drops massaged her body with cool hands; hot skin succumbed to shivers sprinting along her shoulders and neck.

Gathering strength, the wind brushed across her face. Melissa slowed for the downpour. The wet crescendo sang to her, words only she heard, rehearsed in her thoughts. She inhaled deeply. Splatters of rain stung her cheeks.

Melissa realized Soupbone had grown accustomed to her and thunderstorms.

Yellow lights glowed in the distance from the wood planked house. Beneath a rusty tin roof, the long winding veranda rose up on stone and mortar. The Jipson family had lived on this land, sharecropping, since the birth of Melissa’s great-grand pappy Deacon.

Thick beam steps warped slightly leading up to the oak-hewed porch. Tacked up roofing shingles patch worked around the bottom edge of the house. A large hole torn by varmints blistered behind an azalea bush. The front door sat five feet above the ground. A rod-iron pedestal table situated near the screen door held several cut branches of flowering wisterias that draped over the round top. In the center of the table a white chipped enamel kettle accented the clusters of purplish blooms. The pot had been in the family since Jeff Davis resigned from the Confederacy.

The rain had blown over. Crickets chirped and harmonized with night locusts in the towering pines adjacent the south wall of the house. Melissa, soaked to the bone, walked around to the back and pulled on the door. The spring fastened hinges whined open against the quickly closing blackness of night as she stepped inside the light emitting from the kitchen.

Melissa’s mother, Ruby Jipson, busied herself cooking supper. Lissy, what on earth? Child, git in this house. Yo’r gonna catch yo’ death of cold. Go change them wet clothes. And, hurry back ‘cause I need yo’ help in the kitchen. Turnip greens boiled on the stove beside her. She turned the burner down to simmer, stirring the pot.

Yes, ma’am. Melissa glanced into the living room. Her daddy sat in his easy chair reading the evening paper. She held her drenched fishing sack and cane pole in her hands.

Don’t bring that nasty bag inside the house. It stinks of catfish, her mother said. Small beads of perspiration built up on Ruby’s forehead from the heat of the oven.

I’m gonna clean ‘em, Mama.

Not inside. Now, ya heard me, Lissy. Outside with it. The oven door rattled a bit as Ruby removed a baked ham. A sweet honey smoked aroma raced through the entire house.

Melissa heard the back door slam. Soupbone pawed at the screen, prying his nose between it. Quickly Melissa stepped forward reaching for the screen handle to open the door for her dog.

Don’t ya dare! That there mongrel ain’t comin’ any wheres near my clean floors. He’s muddy. Ruby shook a long wooden spoon in the dog’s direction. He belongs outside with all of the other animals.

Soupbone whimpered.

He’s wet an’ cold. Mama, Melissa protested.

Nothin’s gonna happen to that ole hound, Lissy. Yo’r gonna be the death of me one day, I can tell ya. What am I gonna do with ya? Yo’ head’s always in the stars traipsin’ in lightnin’. Ruby turned to her oldest son, Zack, and said, Grab up that fish sack an’ clean them fish b‘fore supp’r.

Mama, why me? I didn’t catch ‘em. Lissy oughta…

Zack, ya heard what I said. Now, go on.

Mama… his words fell off as he stomped out the back door carrying the fish sack.

Sounds of Henry Jipson’s newspaper crinkled from the living room. Ruby, that there sur’ smells good. ‘Bout supp’r time ain’t it, Honey?

Jus’ ‘bout, Henry. Ruby continued to cook.

Melissa stared at her great-grandma sitting at a pine table nestled in the kitchen nook. Her eyes pled for a sympathetic voice of support.

The old woman smiled back to her. Ruby, let her be. Her words eased across the room with a quiet assuredness of a safety pin fastened to a baby’s diaper.

Yo’r always takin’ her side. Melissa’s mother firmed her jaw. "Well, the dawg stays put. She