Outside Knoxville: The Trilogy

By Bob Carter

Kaskaskia
Parson Bains could not have imagined what was ahead of him when he boarded the Kaskaskia in Beirut, Lebanon. Though he never thought of himself as a brave man, he became a hero to many people because he simply did what he thought was right when faced with many obstacles. He only wanted to serve his time in the Navy and get back to the real world and his true love Marci. But danger and intrigue seemed to surround him from the beginning. While trying to cope with one of the most dangerous jobs in the Navy, he had to confront stowaways, kidnapping, smuggling, a hurricane and murder.

Marci was Mexican/American and drop dead beautiful. Her wealthy family in Texas was highly respected and very powerful. She tried to busy herself with her studies and social activism but she is nadvertently thrust into a whirl of celebrity that she did not seek. Her strongest desire is to fade back to anonymity and reunite with Parson. It would be an eventful two years.

Vine Street 1919
Sam would sneak off every chance he got and go to J.D.'s to practice pool. He was to young to be hanging out there but he befriended Jimmy "The Fox" Darden and a two-fingered black man named Dallas and they let him stay. They quickly found out that Sam was a natural at the game. His skills became legendary. But Sam would eventually have to confront the dark and ugly racial divide of his home town and his family.

Roscoe Springfield was an imposing giant of a man. He was a proud black man one generation removed from slavery in South Carolina. He and his new bride moved to beautiful East Tennessee to start a new life. Soon he would be faced with raising twin boys in a racially hostile environment. A lie told by a white woman to hide her infidelity set off a series of events in one of the worst race riots in American History. It came to its climax on Vine Street in the Summer of 1919.

The Tellico
Surveillance
Parson Bains had dreamed of moving his wife and daughter back to the country and becoming a gentleman farmer. Life was good until the FBI approached him to help them with a special project. He soon discovered, much to his surprise, that his seemingly friendly neighbors were not only Cocaine dealers but the leaders of one of the most insidious racial hate groups in the country. They wanted Parson to infiltrate the group.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Dec 12, 2014
• ISBN: 9781503514515

Book preview

Copyright © 2014 by Bob Carter.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2014919969

   ISBN:   Hardcover     978-1-5035-1450-8

                Softcover       978-1-5035-1452-2

                eBook            978-1-5035-1451-5

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 01/07/2015

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CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

The Negro Holocaust: Lynching And Race Riots In The United States, 1980-1950

Prelude

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

KASKASKIA

On 6 January 1965, Kaskaskia sailed for another 6th Fleet deployment. While she was operating in the Mediterranean, her crew worked day and night delivering over 19,000,000 gallons of fuel to 169 ships.

Kaskaskia received nine battle stars for World War II and seven stars for Korean service.

CHAPTER 1

City water had finally reached Mount Olive. Always before, there had been a cistern with rain water. When continued lack of rain depleted the cistern, they had to haul water from a natural spring a mile away. But now the constant worry about conserving was gone. The fixtures were in place. All that remained to do was install the septic tank, have it inspected by some city official and he would open the valve. The correct spot for the pit to be dug had been outlined in the back yard with small orange flags. It had to be five feet wide, six feet long and eight feet deep. Two of Parson’s uncles had said that they would help on the weekend but he was expected to do much of the digging himself. Grandpa was too old to be digging.

He had finished the ditch for the drain from the house and had started the deep hole for the septic tank. It was hard, sweaty and backbreaking work with a pick, a mattock and shovel in the searing heat of the Tennessee Summer. When there was no breeze, the sun pounded earth and boy.

His hands were not blistered because they were calloused from using a hoe and rake in the family garden for as long as his memory would go back. Parson was twelve.

Mornings were the worst. There was no protection from the sun. But as the afternoon sun got low, a huge Persimmon tree cast a welcomed shadow on the pit and gave some relief. All the old timers said that the tree was the tallest of its kind in the county. There was a Wisteria plant, that was a foot in diameter at the base, that wound up into the tree. It’s tentacles grew to the very top of the tree and everyone said that the winding vine would eventually kill the giant tree. When it was bearing those purple flowers it was a sight to see. Parson was glad it was there. Just beyond the tree was the old barn that had not been used as a working barn in many years. It was now utilized only as a storage building full of junk.

He had started to work at first light and had consumed two quarts of water supplied by Grandma by eleven a.m. The old Terry cloth towel he used to wipe the sweat from his eyes was drenched and he could feel the grit and dirt on his face, arms and bare back. His hair was matted. The pit was now about three feet deep and he so much wanted to get finished with this difficult task and not have to worry about it anymore. He was pushing himself.

The rusty T-Model was sitting up on four cinder blocks. Parson squinted into the sun and glanced at the heat radiating wavy lines from the black hood. A stream of sweat rolled down his forehead and stung his left eye. He wiped the eye with the back of his dirty left hand and returned to his task. Every few inches down he would have to use the flat blade of the mattock to chop through the tree roots and pile them up like a huge skeleton beside the pit.

The clay earth had become even harder the deeper he dug. First he would use the pick or the matic to loosen up the dirt and then heave it out of the hole with the shovel. He had finished a load with the shovel and once again arched the two-tyned pick high above his head. The metal point buried about half way and struck something so hard that the handle stung his hands and he dropped the tool. He assumed that he had hit a rock. He pried up the pick, set it aside and tried a more shallow approach with the mattock. As he dug and scrapped, he discovered that it was not just a rock. It was flat slate. The piece covered almost the entire floor of the pit. It was huge. This piece must be broken and shattered in order to remove it from the pit.

Parson envisioned another full day’s digging added to the chore. Again and again he struck at the slate with the pick. Yet, it showed no signs of giving way. The sharp pick literally bounced off of the flat black rock creating sparks with every blow. Frustration set in; followed by anger. A chip jumped from the slate, striking Parson just below his left eye. He put his dirty fingers to his face and when he looked, he was bleeding. He raised the pick above his head and as a scream born of frustration gushed out of his lungs he threw the pick toward barn, fell to his knees and could hardly get his breath.

For several minutes he was on his hands and knees in the bottom of the pit before he regained his composure. He crawled out, wet down the towel and wiped the dirt and blood from his face. He lay on his back with the towel over his face for another few minutes before his heart stopped racing. He wished that he had some dynamite. He was ashamed and embarrassed that he had reacted in anger and hoped that no one had seen his outburst. He looked around and saw no one and was satisfied that his reaction was his secret.

Parson contemplated the old outhouse that had served the family well for many years. There was tall grass surrounding it with a walking path to the door. In a few days, when the sewer system was finished, his Mom had promised that he could burn it down. He couldn’t wait to cover the weathered wood with kerosene and set a match to it. It would be a milestone in his young life. No more emptying chamber pots every morning. No more dumping lime dust in the outhouse to hold down the smell. Good riddance to a source of embarrassment when they were visited by more affluent friends and family.

Knowing that he could not remove the slate rock by himself, he decided to gather his tools and call it a day until his uncles would be there to help him. The mattock and shovel were beside him and he looked toward the barn where he had thrown the two-tyned pick.

Fully expecting it to be laying outside the barn, he at first searched the grass outside - no pick. He then noticed that there was a hole through the barn wall above his head about eight feet from the ground. The hole was splintered. Deciding that the old wood was just rotten, he assumed that the pick must have gone through the wall and was in the barn. He hoped that he would not be in trouble for damaging the old barn wall. He opened the creaky double doors to let in as much light as possible and went inside. He heard a small varmint scurry into hiding. It was probably a rat - Parson envisioned Chipmunk. The barn had a musty smell - a combination of rotting hay and mothballs. There were thin slivers of sunlight coming through several gaps in the barn walls that cast beams to the dirt floor. He could see dust particles floating across the beams and an abundance of spider webs. He waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness and began to search for the errant pick. No pick. Just as he started to think that he was losing his mind, he noticed another hole in the back barn wall a good twenty-five feet away. He stared at the hole for a minute and thought: Not possible. That pick could not have gone through both barn walls.

He took another cursory look inside and again outside the barn before he started around to the back fully expecting nothing would be there. To his amazement, there was the pick. A huge Knotty-Pine tree stood behind the barn and spread its dense branches and needles over an area so shaded that nothing would grow under it. The pick was stuck in the tree about head-high with it’s fifteen-inch spike buried to the hilt in the heart of the trunk.

Parson was twelve.

CHAPTER 2

Marci was insisting on going. Hesitantly, Parson decided, even though he hated the idea, it was better to go with her than to let her make a trip to Alabama with a bunch of radicals without him going along. He knew that the civil rights movement was important but he had also seen the trouble that was going on in Selma and feared for her safety. He had the attitude that there were enough people working on the problem that her help was not necessary. He would go along for the ride, keep his mouth shut and stay as uninvolved as possible. It was her cause and nothing would deter her from becoming an active participant. He considered himself as only an observer of events.

The old bus had been borrowed from one of the college kid’s family. It was a converted school bus with several individual seats and two facing benches. No air conditioner. No toilet. There were eight black guys, two black girls, five white guys and one Latino - Marci. Three of the white boys were Jewish. Parson took the third seat back, next to the window. Marci was beside him on the aisle.

The group had not left the Knoxville city limits before the discussion started. William Johnson, one of the black men, was dressed in a multicolored tie-died dashiki shirt. He had the first Afro hair style Parson had ever seen and it bounced at the same rhythm as the bus. Johnson seemed to really resent the fact that there were white people involved. After a long tirade about how oppressed the brothers were, how they had been slaves for four hundred years and that the movement was a black thing, he accused the white liberals on the bus of trying to ease their conscience for all of the injustices done to black people by pretending to come to their aid at the demonstrations. A kid named Zimmerman was driving and he half turned in his seat and came to the white group’s defense. You’re wrong, man. he protested. We have been to all the rallies on campus and Steve over there has written several articles in the school paper calling for support from every student to join the cause. We are all involved because we think that it is the right thing to do. A lot of black people have expressed their gratitude that we are trying to raise the consciousness of the white community. You’ve got the wrong attitude, man.

Without responding to Zimmerman’s comments, Johnson pressed on. There is a movement that started in D.C. to see that the United States Government pays reparations to every black person in America for what they did to us for generations. We have been oppressed. We all deserve to be given compensation.

One of the Jewish guys questioned. Reparations? You mean ... like… money?

Of course money. That is the only way to repay us for the injustices of years of slavery. There were a few Right on, brother. and I heard that. comments from the rest of the blacks.

The boy responded, Maybe our people should have a little talk with the Egyptians.

Johnson obviously did not get the connotation. By this time, everyone wanted out of this conversation. It was going nowhere with Johnson.

Parson had not said a word and Johnson turned his attention toward him. What’s your story, brother?, Johnson asked. Parson tossed his shoulder-length blonde hair out of his eyes before he spoke.

I’m just along for the ride, man. Parson replied. Gesturing toward Marci, he added: This is my lady and I didn’t want her make this trip without me. Too much shit going on in Selma.

So you got no stake in this - no opinion?

Parson knew that he did not want to continue this pointless dialogue and he had promised himself that he would be mute. But he replied. Hell, pal, everyone has an opinion. It would seem to me that if anyone on this bus knows anything about oppression, it’s these Jewish boys. Maybe you could learn something from them. Johnson did not reply. Parson turned in his seat, slumped down with his knees against the seat in front of him and feigned trying to go to sleep. The move signaled - end of conversation.

The plan was to drive from the Tennessee campus to Franklin where there was a black church group that would put them up for the night and feed them. That part of the plan came off well. There were cots set up in the church basement and some of the best fried chicken they had ever eaten. After a breakfast of scrambled eggs, sausage, homemade biscuits and gravy, it was back on the bus to Alabama. They were to meet that afternoon with several groups from various campuses around the country in Blanch, Alabama, a small town just south of the Tennessee state line. From there they would go together to Selma.

It was a two-lane paved rural road lined on each side by towering Southern Pines. There was the occasional sharecropper’s shack but other than that, it was deserted. They had seen only one other vehicle since they got on the road. It was a fifty’s model beat up pickup truck driven by an old black man in overalls. He nodded as they passed.

The girls insisted that they had to pee. Zimmerman declared that they would need gas soon and that the girls could go when they came to a service station. Zimmerman was a Yankee. The black girls knew from experience that even when they found a service station, there would be no facilities for blacks, so they made a scene and Zimmerman pulled over. The men went to one side of the bus and the women scurried into the woods on the other side.

The bus was running on fumes when they finally came to a crossroads and a country store/gas station/post office. The old building was unpainted wooden slats and it had a porch with several weather beaten chairs. The outer walls were plastered with embossed metal signs. They were all rusting except one Royal Crown Cola that was obviously brand new. A pile of worn tires were stacked on one side and a junked fifty-four Ford was up on concrete blocks on the other side. Typical. Parson thought.

As Zimmerman pumped the bus full from the single pump, the rest of the group wandered inside to stock up on soft drinks and junk food. Marci asked Parson if he wanted anything and he mumbled Pepsi. There was an elderly man perched in one of the wooden rockers at the end of the porch carefully sizing up the group. Mornin’., Parson offered as he took a seat beside the old man and lit up a Lucky Strike. Marci returned with his Pepsi. Howdy. was the reply. You ain’t by chance headed to ’Bama with all them Negroes are ya? His Tennessee accent turned the word Negro into three syllables. That’s the plan. Parson answered. By this time several of the group had gathered outside and were standing just off the porch and heard the question and answer. He continued. You know, some of those folks down there ain’t real happy with folks like y’all showin’ up in their county. And they gonna’ know you’re there the minute you cross the county line. They got people watchin’ for you.

Johnson came closer, took a long swallow from his Coke and asked, What folks? The old man raised his gray eyebrows and then spit some Red Man off the side of the porch before he continued. Them that don’t like ya’ll buttin’ in on things that ain’t none of ya’ll’s business. They call ya’ll outside Yankee agitators. The inflection in his voice did nothing to hide his feelings. Y’all’s best bet right now is to turn your bus around and go back up North where you came from. Your about to head in to a crib full of trouble.

Parson tried to head off Johnson’s predictable response. Yankees? Hell old timer, we’re from the South.

Bullshit,boy. he shot back. You and that pretty Mexican gal are from the South, but the rest of this bunch, includin’ them Jew boys are carpetbaggers. And you ain’t gonna’ be welcome down there. The old fart was exactly right about all of them and Parson wondered how he knew.

There was a park that was well-shaded by huge Oak trees. It was a hundred yards across and over a hundred and fifty yards deep. The bus pulled in diagonally along side several others that were at one end of the park. At the other end, Parson could see the Court House, a Baptist church, a hotel, a Volunteer Fire Department and a hardware store. To the right there were several stores and a barber shop. On the left was a row of antebellum houses that Sherman had missed and they were well preserved and had immaculate manicured yards adorned with Lilacs and Chrysanthemums. The small town looked sleepy except for the park that had been invaded by dozens of mostly college-aged kids. The black kids outnumbered the whites 10 to 1. Some lay on blankets in the shade of the Oak trees. Some wandered the park in small groups. There was a long-haired kid that had attracted a crowd that was listening to him sing and play guitar. The songs were Kingston Trio and Peter, Paul and Mary. The crowd tried to sing along on the ones they knew. Parson and Marci escaped the afternoon heat by staking a claim on a park bench that was in the shade.

He stared at the young girl intently for a long moment before he spoke. Why do you do this, Marci? How can you be this passionate about politics? She gave him a soft smile and said, Parson… It’s much more than just politics. Even though I was born in Texas, raised in Texas and my family has been there for generations, to some people down there I am still just a Mexican wetback. I have experienced a small part of the prejudices that these people are going through. It is ugly and it is wrong. If I can play a part, even this small part, to help bring these people into the mainstream, I feel that I not only helped bring them equality, but I have helped my people at the same time. Please understand. Patronize me a little. O.K.? Parson only sighed and nodded.

About dusk the bullhorn cracked on. Please, everyone, gather around. We have some announcements to make. His name was Kevin Kennedy. He and his group had driven from the University of Chicago to help organize the events to come. He waited a few minutes for the crowd to bunch up before he began. O.K., here’s the deal. Some of the local folks have planned a covered dish dinner for all of us tonight. They will be coming here in about an hour. There are no rooms available for us in town. The local hotel is booked up. He chuckled and added, What a surprise. There must be some kind of convention in town. Anyway, you can stay in your cars and buses or sleep in the park tonight. Tomorrow morning, the First Baptist Church of the Nazarene has organized a rally in our support for nine o’clock. This should not take too long and we will get on the road immediately following.

Parson had left Marci curled up in a fetal position in the bus seat and found a park bench to sleep on. He awoke, as usual, at 5 a.m., found a working water fountain and splashed his face. He had smoked three Luckies before anyone else stirred. He waited for what seemed like hours before the sun started coming up and he decided that it was time for the others to get up. He was hungry and he needed a clean shirt. A shower would be great. To his surprise, as he neared the bus, the girls were coming down the steps bundled in their blankets and their overnight cases in hand. Marci quickly explained that they were headed to the church to freshen up and asked if he wanted to come along. Just bring me back some food. he declined. He had a wash cloth and towel in his bag so he took a cursory sponge bath from the waist up and put on a clean denim shirt. Marci returned with three cinnamon biscuits and a pint of milk.

Parson strained to see what was going on at the other end of the park. There were three uniformed officers on the Court House steps. He knew that they must be the local police. The fire truck was out of it’s bay and two men were wiping it down with white towels. The thing that looked out of place was a gathering of twenty or so men in front of the general store. At least one of them had a rifle as far as Parson could tell. He did not like that.

As planned, the local black church group started arriving and they were dressed in their Sunday-go-to-meetin’ clothes. The women wore white gloves and paten leather shoes. The men had on their suits and ties. The little girls wore their starched dresses and had bows in their hair. The little guys wore clean but ill-fitting suits and clip on bow ties. They were all saying their good mornings and God bless you. greetings. One elderly man was wearing yellow trousers, black suspenders, a gleaming white shirt and yellow bow tie and was topped off with a straw hat. He was flanked by a younger woman, probably his daughter, that assisted him with his faltering steps. He wore a pair of glasses with lenses so thick that he could probably start a fire. When he looked straight on at someone, his eyes were magnified to twice their normal size. When he smiled, he flashed a set of perfect white teeth.

When the montage of folks had all assembled and sang a few hymns, it was suggested that they all make a parade around the park. Kennedy, who was anxious to get on the road, tried to discourage the impromptu march but was overruled. The crowd moved to the end of the block and made the turn toward the Court House. Parson took Marci’s hand and said, Let’s bring up the rear. She looked at him curiously but did not object. The procession, led by the preacher, had made it’s way to the next corner singing all the way. Suddenly, eight county patrol cars, lights flashing, pulled out of a side street and came to a screeching stop in front of the Court House. A dozen or more patrolmen emerged - nightsticks in hand. Three of them had German Shepherds on leash.

As the procession approached the Court House, words were exchanged. Parson and Marci could not hear what was said over the refrains of We Shall Overcome. But they knew it was not cordial. Parson spotted one of the firemen climb to the top of the fire truck. Oh, shit, Marci, we got trouble.

The water blasted and knocked several people from their feet and washed them down the street for several yards. The screams started. One young black boy was slammed into a tree by the force of the spray. Parson half drug Marci to where one of the Oak trees was between them and the retreating melee. People were running over each other to escape the spray. Many had fallen and gotten back up to run again in retreat. Once out of range of the water cannon, the screaming stopped. People rushed by Parson and Marci crouched behind the protection of the Oak. Parson looked back toward the bus and saw Johnson and Zimmerman carrying one of the girls onto the bus. She was limp. Get back on board the bus, Marci, move. Parson ordered. She was frightened but she obeyed. Parson went to the aid of a lady that had fallen and helped her to her feet. The street was clear now except for the old man in the yellow trousers and his escort. She was all but dragging him down the street. They were both soaking wet and his glasses and hat were missing. Surprisingly, they were not being pursued. There were jeers and laughing from the other end of the block but they had all stood their ground.

Just as Parson thought that it was all over he saw one of the patrolmen move himself and his German Shepherd to the front of the crowd. He snapped the leash from the collar and shouted a command. The animal bounded down the street in full stride. Damn. Parson mumbled. This can’t happen. He ran back up the street toward the rushing animal. The dog was concentrating on those yellow trousers and did not seem to notice Parson coming at an angle toward him or he simply ignored him. The collision made a loud thud as the two met in midair when the dog jumped for the old man. They rolled down an embankment with Parson clinging to the dog’s throat. When they came to a stop, Parson’s legs were around the Shepperd’s torso. He grabbed the dog by the muzzle and jerked toward the backbone. There was an audible crack and the dog was dead without making a sound.

Parson knew that he could not stick around because the cops would be there soon. He ran behind the row of houses and down the alley. Within minutes the troopers were cruising the streets in search of him. It took him the better part of an hour to get past the cops unnoticed and back on the bus. He was the last one to return.

Crank it up Z-man. Let’s get the hell out of here. Parson ordered. Marci, you all right? She told him she was fine but that Alesia was hurt pretty badly. She had fallen against a storm drain and was knocked unconscious. She had come around on the bus but they feared that she may have some broken ribs. Where’s the closest hospital? he asked. A voice from the back of the bus declared, I will not go to any Ala-damn-bama hospital. I will be fine. Alesia was adamant. Many of the others were already gone and the police were checking every vehicle looking for the lousy dog killer. They will be looking for a white boy with long blonde hair in a denim shirt, man. You know that they didn’t see your face. Johnson explained. Change shirts and put your hair up and put on Billy’s ball cap. We’ll get through this. Parson did and they did.

A county patrolman came on the bus, looked around and waved them on through. They headed South. They had traveled only a few miles when Parson knelt beside Zimmerman and said Stop the bus! The driver knew by the tone of his voice that he meant what he said so Parson did not have to repeat the command. When they had come to a full stop, Parson stood up and addressed the group.

Today was probably a piece of cake compared to what we will face if we go on. We have one injured. She needs medical attention. She may have a concussion. She may be bleeding internally. We don’t know. I believe at this point that the smart thing to do is get back across the state line and get her some help. Either way, Marci and I are going home. You can take Alesia to the hospital and we will head back from there or we can get off right here. But we ain’t going to Selma. His gazed fixed on Marci’s for a moment then he sat down beside her and put his arm around her. She put her head on his shoulder and her hand on his chest and whispered, I’m sorry, Pars.

There was some indecision in the group at first but they finally decided that Alesia should be taken care of at a hospital. Zimmerman turned the bus around and headed North. As they passed the old store where they had filled up with gas, the old man was once again sitting in his rocker and as he watched them drive by, he leaned over the porch railing and spit out a stream of Red Man.

The others were sleeping when Johnson spoke softly to Parson. I seen what you did to that dog back there, brother. That took some nuts. And I took you for a man without conviction. He smiled and extended his hand.

CHAPTER 3

Harley’s weather beaten face squinted with what seemed to be genuine concern when he told the much younger man that, Illinois in November ain’t no place for a Southern boy to be. Too dammed cold.. too many Yankees… too many colored folks. He then turned back to the task of removing the moist dirt from the clogged harrow disk. Parson stood there for a moment with his hands in his jeans pockets and contemplated the warning. Then he dismissed his initial concern by telling himself, Hell. What does Harley know anyway? He’s never been out of Knox County in his entire life. He was born on that farm sixty years ago and never saw any reason to venture past the county line.

Parson had only a few days left at home before he was to board a train to Great Lakes, Illinois, for Navy boot camp. He reminded himself for the tenth time to be sure he looked for the place on a map because he was not certain where it was in Illinois. He did not know for sure which of the Great Lakes it was near. The recruiter did not volunteer that information and Parson did not want to ask for fear of appearing stupid.

So, what’s the big deal with Yankees and blacks? They prefer to be called blacks now, ya know, Harley? Harley did not respond. I’ve known several Yankees from up at the university, Harley, they’re not so bad. They seem a little nervous all the time and they talk funny but I get along with them O.K. Harley pulled on his worn work gloves and climbed back up on the tractor. Parson continued, I don’t know many black folks very well but I figure that they want to just be like everybody else. I can get along with them too. So, Parson repeated. What’s the big deal. Harley cranked Big Green, adjusted the doughnut-shaped seat cushion beneath his butt, turned in the seat and gave Parson a long stare and a sigh as if to say, Boy, it would just take too long to explain right now. Then over that distinctively John Deere loping idle he waived and yelled, Good luck to you, Parson. Then man and machine lurched on toward the horizon. Parson wondered how many lifetime hours Harley had spent on that rig.

As Parson walked through the dirt clods and cut up corn stalks back across the field toward home, a wave of anxiety came over him. Had he made the biggest mistake of his life? He knew that there was no way out now. He had signed up and been sworn in. He had given his word and he could not back out now for fear of going to jail. He contemplated for a brief second on which was worse - jail or Southeast Asia. He could run to Canada like a lot of others had done but that seemed to be the way of a coward. Besides, if he went to Canada now it would not be just draft dodging, it would be desertion. Plus, if he ran, he might not ever see his family, Marci or his friends again. No, Canada was out of the question. He figured that if he was in the Navy, the odds were that he would never see combat anyway. He was an American. He would do his duty. Anxiety gone.

Like most young men his age, Parson was mostly confused about Vietnam and had many questions about exactly what the U.S. was trying to accomplish and why. The carnage was on television news every day. The war had escalated and escalated and drug on and on with no discernible end in sight. The recent news reported that the Paris peace talks had come to a standstill because the participants could not agree on the shape of the meeting table. Some wanted rectangular and some wanted oval. How foolish. He thought. Kids are dying every day on both sides and grown men were being incredibly petty.

The reality of the seriousness of this undeclared war had not touched Parson until a neighbor’s son had come home in a box. Jan McKay had been home on leave proudly showing off his wings when he graduated from helicopter training. He had just turned twenty. Two months later, his family and hundreds of his friends watched as his mother was thanked by a Marine for ... his service, from a grateful nation. He had known the family all of his life. Jan’s mom was a sweet Christian woman. Parson knew that the trifold flag could not give her grandchildren. Jan’s dad, Bill, was totally devastated. He could not choke back the tears. He believed that Jan was the reason God put him on earth - to conceive Jan. Bill felt that if he had accomplished nothing else in his life, he could look at his only son, in moments of self doubt, and feel proud and fulfilled. Parson went back to his car at the cemetery, pressed his face against Marci’s shoulder and wept.

Parson had been working a forty hour week and trying to carry a full academic schedule at the University of Tennessee. Being a naive farm boy, the sins of campus life had really seduced him. Too much partying and women and not enough classes and study had been his downfall. In his junior year he flunked out. Within weeks he had been reclassified by his draft board. No more student deferment. Draft boards moved very quickly. It was 1964 and the word was that the military was calling up fifty thousand men a month. So when you lost your deferment it was only a matter of time before they would get you.

Parson hated the thought of the combination of jungle and gunfire and death. But he knew that serving in the military was inevitable. He had checked every other branch to try and join anything other than the infantry. Brilliant. He thought. I’ll join the Coast Guard. They’re not getting shot at. Parson had not done his research. The truth was that the Coast guard had Vietnam surrounded and were taking gunfire every day. The smiling recruiter said. Sure, we would love to have your in our outfit, son. But you must understand that we take only two new recruits a month at this station. I’ll put your name on our waiting list. Trying to be as polite as possible, Parson inquired, How many men do you have ahead of me on that list, sir? The answer was short, Six hundred. There was a moment of silence while Parson tried to figure in his head. Two into six hundred was three hundred. Three hundred months divided by twelve was twenty-five years. Then he spoke out loud. Hell, I’d be an old man before that happened That’s right., the man said unsympathetically. I get at least ten of you guys a week that think you are going to skate out of this war in the Coast Guard. Well, it don’t work that way, Pal.

Parson would pass the Naval Reserve Station along side the Tennessee River almost every day on his way to work. Although he did not especially want to join anything for four years he was getting desperate to do something. He stopped by to check out their deal. Expecting to be told that their quotas were full or that they were only taking some far out specialized skills, Parson could barely contain his elation at what the Chief Gunner’s Mate was telling him. Yes we have seven billets open right now for new men. The way our program works is simple. You will attend meetings at this station every Monday night for one year. Then you will go on active duty for two years and when you return you will attend training meetings here for another three years to fulfill your six year obligation. We will, of course pay you for those meetings. Parson’s relieved mind raced. He thought, This is great. The war could be over in that first year. Only two years on active duty. How bad could that be on board a ship? No jungles. This is great. Why have I not heard about this before? This is great. He signed up. He was sworn in. He had to cut his hair.

That was a year ago. The war was not over. The peace was not in sight and it was now time to pay the piper. He was headed somewhere in Illinois with, Too many Yankees and too many colored people. God, he thought, That didn’t come out right, did it?

The temperature was in the mid thirties and there was a slight breeze. He knew that his hands were going to freeze but he had to wash his Galaxy XL 500, his pride and joy, before heading into town to join his cronies that afternoon. Nobody had ever seen that car dirty. He wanted to get the job done before his Mom got home. He had talked that afternoon with his Grandparents and it had seemed that his leaving was old hat to them. They sent five sons into combat during World War Two and, they were blessed, all had survived that war.

He had walked across a half a mile of dirt clods to say goodbye to Harley and that conversation went nowhere. Now he felt a great desire to spend some time with his Mother. There wasn’t anything specific on his mind but there was this feeling that a conversation with her would be reassuring to both of them at this time. He needed it. Besides, he would be leaving in a few days for two years and he should spend some time with his Mom before he left.

After the last drop of water was dried from the big chrome bumper, Parson headed inside. The heavy front door swung open to reveal the distinctive fragrance of baking bread. He paused for a moment and it strangely occurred to him that in his twenty-three years in this house he could not remember that door ever being locked. He thought, I guess there has never been a reason to lock it. He wondered if there was a key for that door around some place.

Granddad Tom Price sat in his big rocking chair. It was one of those that had two stationary runners that sat on the floor and the rocker arms were on top of them so as to not wear out the linoleum under the chair. He had stoked up with another bowl of Prince Albert out of the flat metal can. He always used those big wooden kitchen matches because they would burn longer. He had a drawer full of Zippos from well intentioned children and grandchildren for Christmas and birthday gifts, but after a few days of use he would always go back to the phosphorus burning matches. His corner of the large living room was veiled in blue tobacco smoke. He looked over his glasses as Parson entered, gave him a nod and went back to his newspaper. Parson’s grandfather was not much on ceremony or affection. Parson knew that the old man loved him but he figured that his Papaw, as everyone in the family called him, just had trouble showing his feelings.

Parson called an unanswered greeting to his Mamaw in the kitchen and went upstairs to his bedroom. It was a large room with a dormer off of each end. One of the small dormers served as Parson’s bedroom. The room had a large window in the South end that overlooked the neighboring farm. In the distance Parson could see the slow moving L & N freight train as it lumbered toward Atlanta. The room was no larger than a jail cell. It barely had space enough for a small single bed, but for Parson, that was enough. The bed was covered with a handmade patchwork quilt, as was every other bed in the house. Parson recognized that some of the small bits of cloth had come from pattern-printed chicken feed sacks that they once bought for the thousand or so layer hens they had when he was much younger. He remembered wearing shirts made from the same cotton material that his Mom had made for him. At the time, he had been very proud of those shirts.

The larger room contained Mom’s double bed and a dressing table. There were two chest-of-drawers and in one corner there stood an ironing board. He had not slept here very much for the past few years. And Mom had accepted the routine of him staying gone from home for days at a time until he ran out of clean clothes or he wanted a home cooked meal. But he knew that he always had a place to go if he needed one.

His solitude was broken by the sound of car tires coming down the gravel driveway. He went to the window and saw his mother’s Studebaker Lark pass below. After only a minute, he heard the front door close, the muffled voices of greetings between the three elders downstairs and then the sound of her small steps as she climbed the wooden stairs toward the bedroom. Parson was going to be glad to talk to her.

Molly Bains was five feet tall and might have weighed 100 pounds. She was tough combined with tender. Like most Southerners that had survived the Great Depression, she had an impeccable work ethic. Parson could not remember her ever missing a day’s work. He had never seen her cry and he had never know her to ask anyone for anything even when times were very difficult. She had worked for almost all of her life in a hosiery mill. Inside the mill were rows after rows of loud machinery. So loud that in order for one person to talk to another they had to yell at the top of their lungs to be heard. And, naturally, the women talked to each other constantly. Consequently, when Molly got home it took a couple of hours for her ears to adjust and for her to stop yelling at everyone.

Well, there’s my little son., she blurted out affectionately. How have you been? You’re leaving in a few days are you not? Have you got all your stuff together? Well, sit down and we’ll talk a minute. O.K.?

Parson smiled at this petite woman in her fifties and thought about how much he loved her. I wanted to spend a little time with you before I had to go.

Molly sat on the bed and stared at her grown son for a moment. It was hard to believe that he had grown up so quickly into a six foot tall green-eyed blonde. He was slender yet muscular. He was an exact duplicate of his father whom he had never known. She laughed inside as she thought about the various styles that shock of hair had been through. He had worn a flat-top, a crew-cut, a pompadour and at one time it had been below his shoulders. Now that he knew he was going to the Navy, it was cut in a manner that she thought was normal for a gentleman and she was pleased by the way he looked.

They had always been close; but since he got his driver’s license at sixteen, he had been primarily on his own. He made decent grades and he didn’t get into any serious trouble. He got his first job in a country store when he was fifteen and had been employed somewhere ever since. She thought to herself, I’ve done a pretty good job raising this boy.

He explained, Mom, I’m leaving in a few days for boot camp and I really don’t know where I will be headed after I finish there. I don’t think there is much chance that I will go to Nam, but there is always that possibility. I’ve signed the title to my car over to Sis. And Chuck and Bobby said that they would take it down to her in Atlanta for me next week. I’ve got my sea bag packed and my traveling uniform laid out. I guess I’m ready to go. I just wanted you to know that I am going to miss you a lot and that I love you. Parson’s voice trailed off as he spoke and tried to swallow the lump in his throat. From the look on his mother’s face, he wasn’t sure that she had heard a word that he had said. Her face was void of emotion.

Son, after the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor, they went straight to Wake Island. There were only a few hundred Marines there. Many of them were killed. Your uncle Alex was taken prisoner and relocated to a prisoner of war camp in China. He stayed there under horrible conditions until the war was over. He was a lot like you when he went in the service. Weighed over two hundred pounds and in perfect health. When he finally came home, he weighed less than a hundred. Nobody recognized him but our mother. She and I nursed him back to normal physically but it changed his head forever. He was a hero with a chest full of medals and a pension. And he had his pride and his honor. You have your pride and honor and I’m sure that you, too, will come home with them. And I am very proud of you.

She had never told him that before and he blushed a little when she said it. He had never thought of women as being patriotic. But he remembered watching her in the stands at a high school football game. When the band started the anthem, she was the first one standing with her hand on her heart. She had lived through World War II when everybody was patriotic.

Are you going to take your civilian clothes with you?

Parson shook his head.

Well then, she added. I’m going to pack them all up and put them in the attic for you because I could really use the closet space. And before you leave I want you to help me get your bed downstairs and into the storage shed. I want to spread things out up here and give myself some more room.

By the way. she scolded. There will be no tattoos on you. Do you understand me? They’re tacky and they are forever. So promise me that you will not get a tattoo while you are in the Navy. If you do, I’m going to smack your jaws.

Parson laughingly replied, "O.K., Mom, No tattoos. I promise.

She stood up, hugged her son with her head on his chest and said, I’ll miss you too, Parson. She paused for a second and asked. Are you hungry? Mamaw has some pork chops ready. With that she turned and headed back down the stairs. Without letting him see it, Molly wiped a tear from her eye.

Parson stood there thinking, So much for a reassuring conversation with dear ol’ Mom. I’ll miss you son, but don’t let the door hit you on the ass on your way out. I can’t blame her much. I’m twenty-three years old. I should have moved out of here years ago.

The Glaspac mufflers on the Ford announced his arrival at the Quickie Package Store.

The store sold only beer, soft drinks, munches and smokes. There was a liquor store next door. Paul David’s dad owned the place and had turned the day-to-day operations over to Paul. Paul had given Parson a job there. At the back of the store was a two car garage that was used for the storage of years of accumulated junk that Paul’s Dad, Joe, had saved over the years. Behind the store and facing the garage bay doors was a mobile home/office that was shared by Joe and his long-time business partner. It had two offices, a small living room and a bedroom. Parson guessed, in case they got sleepy.

Joe would let the boys hang out there and work on their cars. Many a lie had been told in the middle of the night in this building during the bonding sessions of the group. It was their second home. Before they went on a date or if they had nothing else to do, when they got off from work or school, they would go to the Quickie to catch the latest gossip. There were neon illuminated beer signs in every window and every possible wall space. The floors were concrete.

Parson went first into the front door and was greeted by Paul’s expansive grin. He was in a good mood and when he laughed, his dark features contorted into a caricature of his father. The two men, with the exception of their ages, were almost identical. They talked about some triviality and Paul told Parson that Billy Long and his wife Denise were out back in the garage. Billy was working on Allen Dodd’s old Packard. Parson grabbed a Bud from the cooler and went to join them.

Joe David was looking out the window of the trailer, a Cuban stogie clenched between his teeth, watching the weather. It had begun to spit snowflakes.

There was the big 1948 Packard. Billy had pulled it out of the garage because it was running and the leaded exhaust had filled up the garage with a gray-blue haze. The bay door was up and Parson stood under it to avoid the snow. He shouted a greeting to Billy who had propped the big hood up with a two-by-two and was up to his waist under the hood of the car. Billy craned his neck up and said Hey, Parson, my man, how ya’ll doin’. Same ol’, Same ol’, Billy boy, was the reply.

Parson really liked this guy. He was a gentle giant. His six-foot-six frame carried 265 pounds and he had arms as big as Parson’s leg. His skin-tight t-shirt strained around those arms and Parson thought. Only Billy would be out in this weather in a t-shirt. He was oblivious to the cold. Billy and Denise had recently had a baby boy. And to see this Goliath holding the baby was almost comical. His big hands and that little person just looked funny together.

Parson sat down beside Denise on a makeshift bench. She was no bigger than Parson’s Mom. When Billy and Denise stood side-by-side you would wonder how they ever ended up together. Sometimes Parson would try to imagine the two of them having sex and chuckle at the image. Denise was wrapped up and yet shivering in a green cloth coat. She clutched a wad of paper towel to her pink nose. She frowned at Parson and asked, Why doesn’t Allen get rid of that piece of junk and get a new car? It seems he’s forever getting Billy to work on the darn thing.

I’ll tell you why, Denise. Number one, he thinks that car is a classic. He loves it. And number two, he’s the cheapest son-of-a-bitch I know. As long as he can get Billy to patch it up he’s going to keep it. Besides, Billy loves to do that stuff. . for all of us.

Oh, I guess your right, Parson. she conceded. I’m going to get us another beer. Do you want one? Parson nodded and handed her his empty. Where’s baby Shawn? Parson inquired. Her one word answer was, Grandma’s. Denise headed inside for the beer but Parson knew she would not return until she had warmed up some.

Parson was looking up at the snow clouds when he heard Billy’s piercing scream. Parson’s first thought was that a wrench must have slipped off of a nut and that Billy had busted his knuckles on the engine block. That was not the case. Billy’s right elbow had knocked the two-by-two prop out of place bringing the big hood crashing down on him. He took a terrific blow to the back of his head, his left hand was jammed into the red hot manifold and his face was pinned down on the valve cover which was just about as hot as the exhaust manifold. He had screamed and tried to twist loose and when he did his right shoulder jammed into the whirling fan blade so hard that it stopped the engine. Then he went limp … unconscious.

Without contemplating the move. Parson covered the few feet between the bay door and the car almost instantaneously. Engulfed in a surging flood of adrenaline, he seized the massive car hood and in a continuing motion pulled the mass of metal from its supports on the firewall and sailed it across the parking lot. Sparks flashed as the metal scrapped across the pavement and the hood came to a stop sixty feet from the Packard. The sound it made was unearthly.

Parson cradled his friends limp body in his arms and lifted carefully but quickly. He carried the 265 pounds into the bay and knowing that Paul and Denise could not have heard what was going on, he lay Billy on some cardboard boxes and ran to the front of the store to alert them to what had happened.

Joe David had been watching from the window and had seen the event. His cigar hit the floor. He was frozen in amazement. How the hell did he do that? he said to himself out loud. Then he came to his senses and rushed to Billy’s side as Parson returned with two clean towels from the restroom. Billy’s head and shoulder were bleeding badly. They wrapped the two wounds and Parson told Denise, who was hysterical, to snap out of it and bring his car around to the back. They had to get Billy to the hospital. She complied.

The Ford was wide open down the highway and there were no traffic lights in Parson’s vision. Fortunately, Baptist Hospital was only a mile or so away. Billy was bleeding in Parson’s back seat while Denise tried to stop the flow with the already drenched towels.

It took Parson, four orderlies and a nurse to get Billy from the car to the gurney. As they rolled him into the emergency room he opened his eyes and asked Denise what had happened and where he was. She told him about the accident and assured him that he would be all right. The doctor patched the big guy up and took X-rays of his head. He had a concussion, second degree burns on his left hand and cheek and his shoulder took thirty-two stitches to close. The Doc told him to take it easy for a few days and told Denise to keep an eye on him because head injuries could be tricky.

After two hours at the hospital, Parson drove the couple home and promised to bring their car over later. Parson offered to help Billy inside but he insisted that he was feeling fine. Parson quipped, Well, O.K., if that’s what you want. I have more important things to do than drag your big ass around. Things like get your blood out of my back seat before it coagulates. They all laughed a little. As he watched them go down the walkway to their house, Billy with his arm around Denise’s shoulders, Parson thought, If he starts down, that little devil won’t stand a chance of helping him stay up. So he waited until they were inside before he drove off.

Parson returned to the Quickie and reported to Joe, Paul and others that had congregated there as to the status on Billy and asked what had happened to the Packard which had disappeared while he was at the hospital.

Joe volunteered. Allen came in here about thirty minutes ago, raisin’ hell about his car being torn up. We explained that Billy was at the hospital and he was real sorry to hear that Billy was hurt and all, but he couldn’t understand why his hood was detached and laying in the parking lot. Joe paused, so Parson asked, So, what did you tell him?

I told him what I saw you do, but he didn’t believe me. If I had not seen it myself, I’m not sure I would believe it either. How did you do that? Parson was embarrassed. "Do you realize that you ripped out six