Riggins Row

By Suzann Cordell

Most white folks refer to Riggins Row as a shanty town. No white man would dare show up there unless it was daylight. No self-respecting white woman would be caught there at all. But for Johnny Ruth and Hessie, its home. All of their relatives had lived and died right there on the Row.

Johnny Ruth and Hessie grew up together, becoming best friends and neighbors, living side by side on Riggins Row in the middle of a small rural town in Tennessee. Its 1953, and both women are domestic maids who feel privileged to be working for prominent families who treat them well. Its a better situation than most other domestics have in these parts.

Johnny Ruth works for the Porters, the wealthiest family in the county. Charles Porter, a well-to-do attorney, is closely connected to the Ku Klux Klan. His beautiful wife, Savannah, is concealing her sordid, secretive past. Unlike her husband, however, Savannah doesnt have a racist bone in her body. When Charles hires Jasper Thomas, a black man, to be Savannahs driver, he has no idea that Jasper and Savannah will become best friends and confidants, adding fuel to an already smoldering fire within the community.

Quick to notice this friendship, Johnny Ruth warns them of the far-reaching affects this taboo relationship could havenot only on them, but their families, friends, and possibly the whole town.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Feb 25, 2013
• ISBN: 9781475978193

Suzann Cordell

Suzann Cordell has written many short stories. Cordell worked outside the home most of her life and is currently retired, living in the small Tennessee town in which she grew up. She is a widow with two children and four grandchildren. This is her debut novel. Talk with the author: [e-mail]

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Chapter 1

It is 1953 and the dog days of summer were upon us. The heat was almost unbearable as Hessie my best friend and neighbor went about doin’ her usual chores, skillfully dodgin’ the sticky flypaper strips that hung down from her ceilin’. As she continued cleanin’ her small house that looked exactly like every other house on Riggins Row, I could see her dancin’ ’round her kitchen to Big Mamma Thornton’s rendition of Hound Dog blearin’ loudly from a nearby neighbor’s radio while the smell of simmerin’ pots of pinto beans, collard greens and ham-hock permeated the air surroundin’ her house.

White folks always called that area a shanty town, and no white man would dare show up there unless it was durin’ daylight. No self-respectin’ white woman would be caught up in there at all. All of our relatives had lived and died right there on the Row.

Riggins Row was a small, curvy dirt road with twists and turns windin’ up a steep hill, with no back way out. Along each side of the road were our little clapboard houses, beaten plumb down by the year-in, year-out, hard winters and hotter-than-hell summers.

We were fortunate that all our little houses had tiny front porches for sitting outside visitin’ and gettin’ all the latest gossip from passerby’s. We didn’t kid ourselves none, about the condition of our houses, one needin’ more work than the next. But no one ’round there had no money for things such as wood or paint, so our walls just kept right on a-leanin’ and the floors kept right on a-saggin’.

The land around each house was about the size of a turnip patch, but between us, we had enough for the kids to play, runnin’ from one yard to the next, while we women just sat on our little porches watchin’ and interruptin’ the occasional arguments.

At the entrance of Riggins Row we were met by a huge old oak tree. It had always looked half-dead, but that ol’ thing somehow managed to survive from year to year. It was rumored that the tree was haunted by the many souls that had been hung there over the years, even before the Civil War days—a final punishment for slaves who tried to escape their white masters. Many a story was told on the Row of slaves bein’ hogtied and dragged to that hangin’ tree. Some claimed they could still see ghosts pacin’ around it and others said they could actually hear the specters’ wailings late into the dark hours of the night.

The Row was only a few streets over from the town that had been built around it in the early 1800’s. That made life a little easier, come Saturday mornings when lots of folks went shoppin’ and sittin’ on the town square, catchin’ up with kinfolk and friends. We coloreds had our own side of the square, and the whites of course, had theirs. No one crossed that invisible line unless they was askin’ for trouble or was just plain ol’ tetched in the head.

Hessie stopped cleanin’ her little house for a moment, ponderin’ over what her life mighta been like if she’d been born white. She just stood there a-daydreamin’, closin’ her eyes, and leaned against her mop. She imagined herself living in Rolling Fields, the new subdivision where all the higher-ups lived. It’s wide black roads wound throughout the subdivision, and along each side of the perfectly paved streets were beautiful brick houses standin’ side by side, each one different from the others with no resemblance to the dilapidated little shacks on Riggings Row. The lawns were all perfectly kept, with glorious rainbows of flowers and green shrubs planted all about.

I went next door and asked Hessie. What you doin’ there, leanin’ on that mop like that?

Jus’ a-dreamin’, Johnny Ruth.

—out what?

I’m picturin’ myself livin’ in Rolling Fields, married to some well-ta-do gentleman who’d buy me a brand new car. Of course he’d have to teach me to drive though," she said, laughin’ at the mental picture that popped up.

Then I reckon, we would attend Sunday mornin’ church at Mt. Zion Baptist. I’d be a-sportin’ me a brand new hat, a special ordered hat, right out of the Sears and Roebuck catalog. Then all them ladies in church would be a commentin’ on my fine new hat.

I smiled at her, goin’ along with the charade.

But, Hessie, what you gonna do if the spirit start to move on ya, and that big, fine, new hat of yers decides to go flyin’ right off your head?

Oh, Johnny! Don’t you worry none ’bout that, ’cause I’m gonna pin that sucker down so tight on my head, a hurricane would have a hard time knockin’ it off! she said, causin’ us both to laugh.

Then, what you and your made up husband, gonna do?

Well, I reckon after church, me and my ol’ man would take all the children to Woodland Park and enjoy a leisurely like swim in that community swimming pool where coloreds ain’t allowed.

You know Hessie, that means you and your black ass.

"Johnny, I’ll have you know that in this here fantasy of mine, my ass is white! I sho wish you’d quit messin’ with me and jus’ let me keep on a dreamin’, will ya? Hessie said, givin’ me a look of total frustration before she continued.

Like I was sayin’, I’d fix us a big ol’ picnic lunch with lots of fried chicken, potato salad, homemade yeast rolls and, of course, my all time famous sweet potato pie.

By that smile on her face, I could tell she was actually tastin’ that imaginary sweet potato pie. Suddenly, as her trance broke, she almost toppled off the mop she was propped up on.

In reality, we both knew that the white man had it all. In fact, if you were white you could just about get away with murder, especially if they were killin’ one of us niggers rememberin’ past lynchin’s, and of course that ol’ hangin’ tree right out there in our own front yards.

Chapter 2

Hessie and I were both maids. She worked for the Warner family, Albert and Shelia. Miss Shelia was from England and they had two children. I was chief cook and bottle-washer for the Porter’s, Charles and Ellen.

Sometimes I felt like Hessie took better care of that family than she did her own, though I wouldn’t tell her that. Mr. Warner wasn’t a cheap man and he gladly payed her the goin’ rate for housekeepers around these parts, which ain’t sayin’ a whole hell of a lot. Hessie just had to thank the good Lord for Mrs. Warner, who always tried to help out by sendin’ all kinds of extras home, knowin’ that poor Hessie couldn’t support her seven children on a maids pay alone. Mrs. Warner was always goin’ on about the dead beat fathers of Hessie’s children. Little did she know the real story behind Hessie’s children.

Like I said, Hessie and I went way back. We were practically friends before we was ever even born, since our mamas were friends long before we ever came along. They even took turns birthin’ each other’s babies.

I was the darker, more serious one, where Hessie was the free spirited one, never lettin’ nothin’ get her down. She was a short, little, light brown skinned woman with two big gold front teeth that were always glistenin when she talked or smiled. She was twenty-nine years old at that time, five years younger than me, and she’d only finished the sixth grade; however, much like me, in her short life she’d already lived and learned enough for a lifetime.

Hessie and I both came from large families that could be traced back to slavery days. She was one of thirteen children, and I was one of five, all of us raised right there on Riggins Row. Many of her siblin’s had been farmed out to any relative who was willin’ to take on another mouth to feed, whereas my parents, did the best they could by all of us.

Chapter 3

It was late afternoon, Hessie and I were just sittin’ on my porch havin’ us a little visit while snappin’ our beans for dinner, when young Yahya, a fourteen-year-old girl from down the road, came up and started a squallin’.

What’s wrong with you child? I asked.

Miss Johnny, Miss Hessie. I needs y’ all’s advice but you gotta promise me, you won’t say nothin’ to my mama.

Now Yahya. That just depends on what it is, child, said Hessie.

It’s about my pap, she said, through her cryin’ breath. It was one of those kinda cries when she couldn’t even catch her breath good.

"What is it, girl? You gots ta tells us, if’n you want our help, I said gettin’ up and holdin’ the girl close to me, tryin’ to comfort her.

All of a sudden, young Yahya just blurted out. My pap’s been messin’ ’round with me and my sister, and now we both gon’ have his babies! Hessie and I just stared at each other, not really knowin’ what to say to this poor child.

Then in a split second, all of a sudden like, Hessie jumped up outta her chair, laid her hand on Yahya’s shoulder, and looked the girl straight in her big brown, tearful eyes.

Yahya, you listen to me girl. You ain’t got no choice. You gotta tell your mama the truth. I know your mama, and I know she gon kick that sorry-ass daddy a yours right outta that house. If you need Johnny and me to help with the convincin’ all you gotta do is ask. Why, I’m real sure we can even convince that dirty daddy a yours to get plumb outta town. You go on home now and talk to your mama. You gots to tell her the truth. Yahya still crying, slowly nodded her head, turned and reluctantly headed home.

Hessie, that was mighty brave of you. I’ve never seen your face so full of rage before. What was that all about?

I’ll tell you what it’s all about. My daddy and uncles did the same to me, and now two of my babies are also my sisters. I ain’t too sure about the rest. Johnny, if we can make him leave those girls alone, they’ll finally have them some peace, ’cause there’s never no peace when a growed-up man is just waitin’ ’round the corner to jump your bones. Trust me when I tell ya, that what those girls are goin’ through is a livin’ hell, all the time.

Hessie, I’m so sorry. I knew somethin’ was wrong while we was a growin’ up, and when you got pregnant at twelve, I thought it was strange then. I never seen you ’round no boys. I guess I mighty, kinda knew, but didn’t really want to know. Why didn’t you go see Marilla, the abortion woman down here on the Row? Hell, all them white women go to her. If you’da asked me, I’da gone with you.

"I was too scared Johnny. Have you seen that woman? She looks crazy with those big black eyes dartin’ all about and what ’bout her hair? Looks like somebody come along and done streaked it with a can of gray paint. And I sho don’t know ’bout all them funny clothes she wears with all those colored ribbons and silvery chain like things hangin’ ’round her wrinkly ol’ neck.

I’ve heard some strange stories ’bout that old woman. She doin’ some kinda voodoo. I didn’t what no part of it. I guess I just did what I had to do at the time—jus’ had my babies and went on with my life.

Hessie, did your mama know?

Hell yes! She knew, but there wasn’t nothin’ she could do. Same thing was done to her by her kinfolk too. Causa that, she always said, it weren’t never safe to have a girl child livin’ in the house with mens.

Why didn’t you say somethin’ Hessie? I would have done somethin’. I coulda helped… . somehow.

Hessie’s rage suddenly turned into visible sadness, as she began shakin’ her head back and forth as if she was grievin’, then leaned in and softly said.

Johnny Ruth, let me tell you a secret. Some days, I just sits here by the fire and think back on all the has-beens of my life. To tell you the God’s honest truth, I thought I asked for it to happen in some odd kinda way. Then I felt guilty as hell when it started to feel good and not bad. I always felt it was wrong and sinful. I was so ashamed of myself that I never told nobody ’bout it before now. Am I a bad person Johnny? Does you think I might be goin’ to Hell. I sho feel real bad ’bout it, and I know how that child Yahya feels too.

"Hessie, girl, don’t you go and feel bad about yo’self. You didn’t have no choice. You was an innocent child, just like Yahya. Your mama didn’t have no choice either. Y’all just did what women has had to do goin’ back all the way through time. You’re a survivor, Hessie, ya hear me? Don’t you ever forget that. And with our help, that Yahya will be a survivor too, you just wait, you’ll see.

Chapter 4

Hessie came over to my house today and found me just sitting in my porch swing, hummin’ a little tune to myself. I noticed she was all down in the dumps, so I asked. What’s gotten into you? Why, you look like you lost your best friend. Come on, sit a spell, and how ’bout somethin’ to drink?

Hessie nodded, and asked with a weak smile.

Johnny you got any a that hard liquor? This is a hard liquor kind a day.

Naturally I did, so I poured us two tumblers of Kentucky Bourbon, a present from old Mr. Porter last Christmas. Since it was from him, I knew it was the good stuff, not the cookin’ kind I usually drink.

Hessie began explainin’ the reason for her sad mood as the bourbon started to loosen her up.

Johnny, my mam went home to be with the Lord this day three years ago. Every time it rolls ’round, I get myself all down in my shoes. I thought comin’ over here might take my mind off of it.

You remember my mam, don’t you Johnny? She was more light-skinned than me, and everybody was tellin’ her how pretty she was, though she didn’t have no shiny gold teeth like me. Hessie smiled real big, showing off her golden choppers, then paused, sighed heavily and wiped her eyes before the tears could hit her cheeks.

I remember very well how pretty your mama was. She had the pretties heart shaped face and those big, dark eyes. In fact, she always looked more white than she did brown to me.

I know, Johnny. She always said she was bronze, not colored. I wish I was as light skinned as she was. If we were back in the slave times, my mama and maybe me, woulda worked in the main house instead of the fields. You know what they say, the lighter the skin the lighter the load.

Well a light load maybe, I said, "but we both know that most of them masters had their way with them light-skinned gals. Since we all came from slaves, we probably got a little a that white stuff floatin’ ’round in us somewhere.

Hessie laughed when I said it, and seemed to enjoy my face, all scrunched up, like I’d just eaten some green persimmons.

Johnny, do you remember my Auntie Pearl? Now that woman was a mess and a half! She ran the local whorehouse, back in the day.

What made Hessie think of that, I’ll never know, but she did seem to be in better spirits, and I was sure the bourbon was