The Sinner in Mississippi

By D.L. Lane

I was born in a rundown house in a small parish outside of Baton Rouge, Louisiana, during one of the worst storms on record. It rained so much the banks of the Mississippi overflowed. For most families, bringing a new life into the world should be a time of great celebration. But giving birth to a girl was not a joyful occasion in my home.

My condition was fragile because I had come more than a month early. Mama never said, but I suspected her injuries and premature labor were the result of Daddy's fists.

Not expecting me to live, the midwife cleaned me up, wrapped me in an old tea towel, and placed me in a knitting basket beside the wood-burning stove. According to Mama, the storm raged until morning, but I never made one sound. So, hours later, when they peeked in at me, they were surprised to see me sucking my thumb, staring up at them with eyes the color of bluebells.

Mama told me, that's when she cried.

See, she hadn't shed a single tear during the harsh pain of giving birth or out of fear of the horrible storm taking the house and her with it, but she sobbed when she saw me. To her, it would have been better for all of us if I'd passed on in the night, carried off on the wings of angels, never to suffer the evils of this world. And sometimes, I wondered if she hadn't been right.

—Mississippi Singleton

• Language: English
• Publisher: By Faith Publishing
• Release date: May 1, 2020
• ISBN: 9781648261428

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Prologue

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May 5, 1958

We’re almost there, Claremont announced, glancing at me from the rearview mirror, his dark eyes shining like polished onyx.

I nodded. "All roads do lead home, don’t they?"

That’s what they sure say, ma’am.

As we bumped along the unpaved, tree-lined street, I gazed out the side window. The afternoon breeze had kicked up, disturbing tendrils of Spanish moss that had long ago made their home in the overhanging limbs of the ancient oaks. Slowly, they swayed back and forth, back and forth, like dancing specters haunting me, before my attention shifted to the house I hadn’t seen in twenty-two years.

Honestly, the place hadn’t changed much, except instead of being shabby, it had degraded. From what I saw, I supposed one could call it a hair’s breadth from collapsing in on itself.

When the car rolled to a stop in front of the house, which hadn’t seen a lick of paint since before I could remember, I took it all in, noticing the weeds were so lazy they didn’t even concern themselves with spreading. Instead, they stayed in the same half-wilted, haphazard clumps where they’d always been. Only the mildew climbing up the right side of the dwelling seemed to have any gumption.

Shaking my head, I peeked at the buckling barn, no longer capable of holding its shape, and for an instant, I wondered when it had given up the good fight.

Did I care?

The ugly truth of the matter was quite simply no. Long ago, I’d attempted to bury this place, and all that came with it in the darkest corners of my mind. But from time to time, those evil little creatures called memories tried to claw their way out of the shadows, making me push them back where they belonged. I never purposely allowed them to return, nor did I ever believe I’d be back to this spot where I both began and came to an end.

I took a deep, measured breath, staring at the house I’d been born in during the middle of the night as our small parish outside of Baton Rouge, Louisiana, experienced one of the worst storms on record. Mama said it rained so much the banks of the Mississippi overflowed, so it was by the grace of God the midwife made it before the flooding ensued.

While the wind stirred outside, threatening to take the tin roof of our house, Mama told me, she suffered inside those quaking walls in hard labor. Unable to do anything else, she prayed the house would keep. Hours later, the wind finally settled, but nothing worked to hold back the rain—not even prayers.

On the second night of the deluge, my mama said, two things happened. Her youngest son, Danny Joe, who was a toddler, was struck ill with the fever, making the midwife split her time between my mama’s needs and tending to him. Then at 12:48 a.m. came the misfortune of my arrival. For most people, bringing a new life into the world would be a time of great celebration. But giving birth to a girl was not a joyful occasion in my home.

Not at all.

My condition was fragile because I had come more than a month early, right after Mama’s fall. She never said, but I suspected her injuries and premature labor were the result of Daddy’s fists.

Absently rubbing the scar under my chin, I recalled my mama telling me she didn’t name me that night, believing I wouldn’t live to see the dawn. She said Fawna-Leigh, the midwife, cleaned me up, wrapped me in an old tea towel, and placed me in a knitting basket beside the wood-burning stove.

According to Mama, the storm raged until morning, but I never made one sound.

Not a cry. Not a peep.

When the sun started to shine, Mama asked Fawna-Leigh to help her get up so she could make Daddy Bruce and her boys something warm for breakfast. Daddy and James Henry, my oldest brother, would be finding their way home from town since the storm cleared, and she was hoping Danny Joe would be strong enough to eat. Of course, Fawna-Leigh did what Mama requested and helped her out of bed, although she had lost a lot of blood and was weak and wobbly. Even so, my mama endured, because that’s what a woman did.

Are you all right?

Claremont’s gravelly voice startled me, causing me to blink up at him. "Hmm?"

I’m unsure at what point my nervousness kicked in, realizing not only had he opened the car door for me, but I’d also been fiddling with one of my earrings.

I asked if you were all right, he said.

Oh, um, yes. I curled my fingers around the palm of his outstretched hand. Just memories distracting me, I guess.

It would seem those pesky things are akin to death and taxes.

All the things we can’t stop? I scooted out of the car, then running a palm over the bell of my hip, I smoothed the wrinkles in my skirt.

"Mm-hm," he hummed.

Straightening my spine, I steeled myself for the reentrance into the past. I hope this won’t take me too long, Claremont.

He shrugged. Take your time. I’ll be here if you need me.

I took one step forward, two steps, then three.

If hopelessness and depression had a scent, those were the recognizable smells permeating the air as I walked over decrepit earth toward the small front porch with a drooping roof and rotting wood. Part of me wanted to turn around and leave. Wipe this visit from my mind. Completely forget. It would have been the easier thing to do. But instead, I placed my foot on the damaged planks—the creaks and moans beginning their noisy complaints.

Thankfully, I was able to make it through the broken front door without those objections giving way to any disaster.

Once inside the tiny kitchen with the chipped green table, scratched blue chairs, and peeling floral wallpaper, I realized not a single item in there lived in harmony with the others. But if I were honest, I’d have to say dissonance was the recurring theme of the place.

As I strode past the filth and overflowing trash can, the recollections crashed around me—wave after wave. It was on the way into this space that Mama and Fawna-Leigh stopped to peek into the basket Fawna had placed me in as a newborn, sure they’d be burying another one of my mama’s babies. But I was sucking my thumb, staring up at them with eyes the color of bluebells.

Mama told me, that’s when she cried.

See, she hadn’t shed a single tear during the harsh pain of giving birth or out of fear of the horrible storm taking the house and her with it, but she sobbed when she saw me. To her, it would have been better for all of us if I’d passed on in the night, carried off on the wings of angels, never to suffer the evils of this world.

Taking a breath of musty air, I stepped into the living room; the yellowing plastered walls spotted where pictures once hung, then paused. The ratty brown sofa tucked under the window—the glass nothing more than a web of fractures over cracks—had dirty pieces of stuffing sprouting from one of its arms.

Unbidden, my gaze slid to the closed door leading to my old bedroom as the rapid beat of my heart pummeled my ribs, and a shudder of revulsion rolled along my spine.

Sometimes I believed my mama might have been right.

God, help me. I swiped away the salty moisture flowing down my face.

When a sense of peace descended, I squared my shoulders, giving Him the thanks, my foot kicking empty liquor bottles aside. They warb-warb-warbled across the uneven wood floor as I entered what barely passed as a bedroom, the stench of sickness so overpowering you could taste it.

Choking from the pungent odor, I covered my nose and mouth with my hand, glancing past the puddle of vomit swarming with flies.

There, where the disheveled figure lay passed out on the bed, I’d heard the story of my stormy arrival when I was fourteen. Right there, I’d perched on the side of the under-stuffed mattress, clasping my mama’s pale, frail fingers, listening to her cough every other breath.

You’ll need to be strong now, Mississippi, came her last labored words.

She passed on from consumption at half-past three on a sunny Sunday afternoon, leaving me behind.

Chapter One

None of them would ever see me cry

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The date was July thirteenth, in the year of our Lord nineteen hundred and thirty-six—the day I turned seventeen. There’d be no party, and I’d get no wish. If I did wish, it would be to spend my morning in a good bed, wrapped in clean, crisp-white sheets while the smell of breakfast cooking enticed me out of a lazy slumber. But my reality consisted of a horrible crick in my neck while surrounded by the scent of stale hay and a stomach so empty it forgot how to protest the point.

If my prayers had worked, I wouldn’t be spending my birthday as a stowaway in the loft of our old, rickety barn. Nonetheless, a stowaway I had become, so I decided to leave the job of talking to God to other girls and stared at a spiderweb instead. The intricate woven threads, delicate and glistening within the fractured beams of the sun, stretched perfectly between the rafters above me. My current accommodations were thanks to Daddy Bruce, Danny Joe, and a handful of their friends who had come home loud and rowdy the night before. But I was grateful for their noisy warning. It allowed me time to sneak out my bedroom window, under cover of darkness.

As I’d tiptoed across the yard, I listened to them argue ’bout who was man enough to hold their own in a fight, and when the sounds of a tussle broke out, it became apparent they’d been on a binge. By the time I got to the back of the barn, the sounds of fighting were louder. I wasn’t happy to leave my bed, ’cause even though the moon bounced out from beneath the cloud cover, giving off moments of muted light, I knew the inside of the barn would be darker than a tomb. Although, what did that matter? Neither the darkness nor the boogeyman had anything on my daddy when he’d been boozing. No. The best thing for me was to stay out of sight—unless I wanted to taste the leather of Daddy’s belt.

Or worse.

When one of Danny Joe’s friends staggered around the side of the barn, undid his fly, turned on his unsteady heel, and started to relieve himself on the corner of the empty tool shed, I’d gently pushed one of the loose wall planks aside and wiggled myself through, glad when the moon decided to make its reappearance. The rays shone brightly through the open loft door from above, giving a heavenly spotlight to the makeshift stepladder.

Trying to be as quiet as possible, though I doubted I could ever make as much of a ruckus as was going on outside, I’d climbed to the loft and settled in, making myself at home. Eventually, I heard nothing but the sounds of the night and drifted off to other places.

The faraway hum of a tractor roused me, followed by the morning sun kissing my cheeks with its warm caress of the day to come.

Bone tired, I rubbed my blurry eyes with the heels of my palms and considered my aches and pains. For an instant, I’d almost forgotten my night’s lodgings, but they once again became all too clear when my eyelids fluttered open and I focused past the dazzling web overhead, noticing the barn swallows. They had made a nest in the peak of the roof, closest to the loft door.

The birds flew in and out, making their morning chatter, causing the sound to echo off the walls.

Holding my hand in front of my face, I spread my fingers wide to study the nest from different angles. I’d close one eye and watch the illusion of the nest shift, then switch and close the other eye to see it move again between my fingers, content with my little picture show.

As the light in the barn changed, the dust particles glittered and skipped on air.

Mississippi!

My body jerked at the sound of Daddy Bruce bellowing my name.

Where the damnation are ya, girl? Don’t ya know it’s hotter than hellfire out here! I need ya to get your skinny little backside on over to Harlow’s and fetch your brother and me some cold beer!

I sighed. Times were hard for everyone, but likely they were even harder for my family. Daddy Bruce had always been a stubborn, self-centered, tyrant of a man, but after Mama died, he’d become more of a bully, and many called him a no-account drunk.

Mississippi! Don’t make me come-a-huntin’ ya, girl!

No reason to try to hide. He would eventually find me, and it was better to face the music sooner than later.

I’m coming! I stood and scurried down the ladder.

The barn doors flew open with a bang, the commotion snapping my head in that direction.

Daddy Bruce stood there, shirtless, the sun shining on his broad, bare shoulders, sweat trickling down his face.

Lord only knew the last time Daddy had a good shave.

Slowly, he strummed his dirty hand along the black suspenders holding up his baggy trousers. Well... Don’t ya look a sight? He cleared his throat and spat out something nasty. Pluck that hay from your hair and straighten yourself up before ya go to town. Don’t want Harlow to think you’re trash, do ya?

That would be a wasted effort. Everybody in our small parish, except for a few, believed I was trash, suspecting I gave favors to men in exchange for things my family and I needed to survive. Many times I’d heard some of the good churchgoing women whisper as I passed. There’s nothin’ but a sinner in that there, Mississippi.

I’ve often wondered ’bout the verse in the Bible Mama used to quote, particularly when those same churchgoing women would prattle on regarding some poor soul in need of saving. He who is without sin among you, let him be the first to throw a stone.

But who was I to argue the point? Perhaps there was a sinner inside me, but if so, it would be of my daddy’s making, driven by my need to eat and his desire to drink.

Did ya hear me? Don’t just stand there lookin’ at me like you’re stupid. Go fix yourself up. The order came as he swiped glistening beads of sweat from his brow. And ask Harlow for some chewin’ tobacca for your brother. Have him put it on our tab.

My skin crawled. I hated that ‘tab,’ and adding tobacco would come at a cost. But if I had the choice between letting Harlow paw at me or give in to Daddy’s friends for their mean amusements, I’d pick portly Harlow Brown.

As soon as I got rid of Daddy, I made my way to the rusty pump, then rinsed out the bucket that hung off the end and gathered some water before taking it inside to clean up. I probably did look a sight, but I wasn’t washing up for Harlow’s sake. I hoped to see Bobby-Ray Kincaid.

Bobby-Ray was an old friend who lived in town with his aunt and uncle, Lulu and Jasper Kincaid. His uncle was nice enough, I supposed, but Lulu tended to be a bit on the snooty side, especially when it came to the lady's gardening club and her never-ending appointment as chairwoman.

When Bobby-Ray and I were young, he used to wait for me so we could walk to school together. His aunt didn’t like it, something she made known to the Lord above and any neighbor who’d listen.

For heaven’s sake, Bobby-Ray, she’d snap, her sour face peeking out her front door. Those Singletons are nothing but trouble.

But Bobby-Ray paid her no never mind.

Time after time, I’d find him standing outside the fence of his aunt’s prized rose garden, holding his cap in his hand.

Every day I could make it to school, he’d walk beside me, and on the days the weather was too bad for me to walk, I pictured him dressed in his warm winter coat, still waiting for me to round the corner.

I dropped out of school when I was twelve, and I didn’t see him much anymore unless he was working for Harlow. But no matter how much time passed, there’d be things I’d never forget ’bout Bobby-Ray. Like his greenest of green eyes and those deep-set dimples when he smiled. He even bought me a Sarsaparilla once. More than likely, it took his day’s wage to purchase it, but he laid his money on the counter, then handed me the bottle and walked me to the door in a gentlemanly fashion. The thought of how he looked that day, his pomade hair slicked back tight to his head, proudly smiling as he escorted me to the front door of Harlow’s, always filled me with a sense of happiness as well as a touch of sadness for a friendship lost.

Pouring the water from the bucket into the basin, I figured it best to think on something other than Bobby-Ray. No time for idle thoughts, especially with Daddy Bruce needing his devil-drink.

With a moan, I squeezed the sore muscles in my neck, then started picking musty straw out of my hair. A few moments later, I figured I’d done the best I could, and I sat down at Mama’s scarred white vanity, using her brush to swipe through the unruly mess. It was going to take me a little while to get all the tangles out, and spending time in front of the mirror was an unfortunate necessity I didn’t enjoy.

In my opinion, a person shouldn’t be forced to see too much of themselves.

Unwavering in its attack, the reflection looking back at me did resemble my mama. There was no denying I inherited her traits. Just like her, I had long, reddish-brown hair, fair skin, and a few freckles scattered over the bridge of my nose.

With a tilt to my head, I determined my lips were probably a little too full. And my blue eyes were a bit too dull, but I didn’t remember a time when they shined, except maybe before Mama passed.

After working out the last snarl in my hair, I placed the brush into a drawer, then got up and peeled off the dirty clothes stuck to my damp body. The heat was sweltering. Placing a rag into the basin of cold water, I rung it out and swiped it over my face, neck, and shoulders, being sure to rub extra good in the crook of my arms, where dirt tended to gather.

Like a gift from above, a breeze blew in through the open window, sending a cool sensation over my wet skin. I closed my eyes for a moment and pretended to be somewhere other than the run-down, old shack of a house until the sound of mischievous chuckling broke my daydream and made me focus.

Maybe we could get a penny a peek.

That was Alistair’s whispered voice.

Naw, Danny Joe muttered. We’re a far piece from town.

It could still work.

But she’s way too bony. After they got a look at her, they’d probably want their money back.

Alistair chuckled. Sippi will fill out someday.

Their penny-a-peek idea was ’bout me, I realized.

My eyes popped open as I twirled around. Danny Joe! I picked up the lumpy pillow from my bed and hurled it in the direction of the open window. You and your buddies get out of here!

The second the horrible thing hit the frame, my brother stood up and ran, followed by the tops of at least three heads scattering from view, the boys’ cackling laughter drifting in on the wind.

In Daddy Bruce’s house, privacy was a hard thing to come by, and I’m sure they saw everything I had to offer, skinny and pitiful as I might be. Sadly, this wasn’t the first time I caught one of my brothers spying on me. Only a couple of days after Mama died, Daddy landed himself behind bars for being drunk and disorderly, and James Henry had set off to bail him out. I’d gone to the outhouse and caught Danny Joe trying to watch me do my business!

Poor Mama’s body hadn’t even had time to settle in the ground, and Daddy Bruce and the boys were headed for their worst.

Mad, I stomped over, pulled the moth-eaten curtains the rest of the way closed, and completed my wipe-down bath. When I finished, I put on the best dress I had, but it was a little tattered around the bottom edge and too big in the chest. I couldn’t complain, however. At least I had quite a few hand-me-downs from Fawna-Leigh, and this dress was still pretty with faded light-pink flowers on an off-white background.

I’d saved some old newsprint and wadded it up before I shoved it all inside the toes of Mama’s Sunday church shoes. Carefully, I tucked my right foot inside the first one, tapping my heel to test it, then slipped on the left shoe. I hoped stuffing the toes would put a stop to the rubbing, but no matter what, I was happy to finally be able to wear those shoes. It didn’t matter if they were a little too large, ’cause I’d been barefoot for most of the last summer. After that, I had come to appreciate shoes, too big or not.

Quickly, I looked around to make sure the coast was clear of snoopy family, then snuck over to the corner by my bed, praying the floorboards didn’t squawk. Glancing down, I counted seven planks to the left and picked up the loose wood.

Beneath the plank, wrapped tightly in a piece of cloth, was one of my mama’s cherished imported perfumes. She’d won a set of three at the Bethel Church bazaar only a month before she died.

After Mama passed, Daddy Bruce sold off many of her few belongings, and her white, leather-bound Bible, a family heirloom she inherited, went missing as well. So I wasn’t going to let him take her collection of English perfumes. When I challenged him, he started in on a rampage, breaking anything he could get his hands on. I snagged the last bottle, held on for dear life, and prayed for God to turn me into a bird so I could fly far, far away.

He never saw fit to give me wings. Instead, my misbehavior earned me ten punishing lashes from Daddy’s belt. But I didn’t give up the goods. I endured, and when Daddy finished ‘teaching me a lesson,’ I cleaned myself up the best I could, then tore a piece of material off a discarded flower sack and wrapped the perfume in it before hiding it away. I used it only sparingly, but soon it would be gone. Perhaps three or four drops remained inside the sparkling bottle, but just like me, that perfume beat the odds of its survival.

Oh, and another wondrous thing? One dab of that sweet-smelling liquid placed behind my ear gave me entrance into the world of make-believe. In that world, I pretended to be a proper lady, even though a proper lady was something I knew I’d never become. Even so, while the scent danced around me, I took a second and inhaled before leaving my daydream behind.

Hastily, I rewrapped the bottle in its shroud and placed it in the dirt. Just as I covered my secret hiding place with the old worn floorboard, the clang of the screen door came from the other room. The familiar click-clack of wood hitting wood reminded me I better get to moving. More than likely, Daddy would be coming to see what was taking me so long, impatient to tie another one on.

Kneeling, fingers clasped in front of her face, my mama would pray and pray for Daddy’s salvation. But her tearful pleas fell on deaf ears ’cause God never stopped him. Prohibition didn’t put an end