Come Day in Night

By hal evans

When Sam White Jr., a white high school student, is asked to start playing drums at the Ebenezer African Methodist Episcopal Church-a predominately Black church-on Sundays, tensions begin to heighten in a Texas town that refuses to acknowledge their place in the Civil Rights era. Sam begins to question the morality of his own family's ties to the Confederacy when his Black classmates reveal their family histories. Sam's father takes him to a KKK rally to set his son straight, an act that does nothing to change Sam's stance. He then begins to speak out against the strong racial dogma apparent in his town, spurring on several attacks on himself and his friends. Meanwhile, Sam's mother remains locked in a mental asylum for reasons he does not know. Family relationships are tried, and new friendships unfold in this coming-of-age story about racial tension and doing what is right during hardship and iniquity.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Jul 12, 2022
• ISBN: 9781612546193

Book preview

THE CRASH OF CYMBALS dissipated slowly as Samuel White slipped from his throne and began his breakdown. A quickened pulse coursed through his body. Thoughts clanged about in his mind, suspended in bronze, as resonant as common time. He felt fully connected to the present moment with an indescribable ecstasy of belonging. Overwhelming in its magnitude. True as his very existence. At-one-ment.

Sammy!

A voice brought him back to earth. His heart gradually slowed to a normal rhythm.

Need help?

He shook his head, still smiling inwardly.

I got it. Thanks.

Choir practice ended at Ebenezer African Methodist Episcopal Church after 9:00 p.m. In closing, Dr. Miles Abrahams prayed for blessings upon all members, present and absent. He prayed the Spirit might fill their voices and their lives as a living witness to their community and the world beyond. He made mention of the argument before the Supreme Court that very day, of its potential impact upon individual lives and the nation as a whole. And the good doctor prayed that special strength be with their brother, the Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. in Memphis, where so many members of their congregation had traveled to support the struggle. So fervent was his prayer that the amen broke forth into singing.

Not all rejoiced, though.

Bass Davis stepped down from the choir loft and met Dr. Abrahams near the door to the parking lot.

What you mean bringing a white boy in here?

Come on, now, the boy can play, responded Dr. Abrahams.

Closing ground quickly behind Bass was his mother. Yes, Brother Miles, she said as she approached. I just heard what he can do. You’re teachin’ him well.

Why thank you, Mrs. Davis. With Virgil out—

You mean in jail, Bass cut in.

What I mean—

Where a white girl put him!

All I mean to say, Bass, is that this Sunday is Palm Sunday . . . Dr. Abrahams reached to hold the door for Mrs. Davis. And that Easter Sunday—

Is a week later, good brother. Mrs. Davis nodded and took a step toward the doorway. Yes, we understand.

Yes, ma’am. And, right now, Sam is the best hope we have to make the music happen on time.

Bass did not budge. Oh, so now he’s the great white hope!

The good doctor smiled through his frustration. Your words, not mine.

Bass stiffened to his full height.

He did all right. The boy will do fine. Sammy will do just fine. Mrs. Davis replied.

I’ve been training him for two years. He’ll do more than suffice.

"Suffice? Suffice? What’s that even mean?"Bass shook his head, as he reached to grab the car keys from his mother.

She swatted his hand away. It means he’ll do fine, she said.

Then why the hell don’t he just say that?

Mrs. Davis slapped her son upside the head. Don’t you know where you are?

Her hand launched swiftly from her short frame. Its reach seemed boundless as she gave him another smack just behind the left ear. I know you know where you are.

I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Mama.

Bass bobbed and weaved his way toward their car. Dr. Abrahams watched from the doorway where he could hear Mrs. Davis speaking through gritted teeth.

I’ve told you, when you’re at church you stop your damn cussin’! Last rehearsal before Palm Sunday an’ half the choir off in Memphis an’ we got a little cracker drummer boy fillin’ in for Virgil, I ain’t got time to worry ‘bout savin’ your soul from all your damn cussin’!

Sorry, Mama!

And at church, for Christ’s sake! she continued as the car doors closed, confining their verbal scuffle from earshot.

All this time the White boy had continued breaking down his drum set, methodically packing the cymbals and sticks into their bags before carrying each drum to his car. He could not help but hear part of the conversation, especially Mrs. Davis’s last statement, as he got to the doorway with his bass drum.

Doctor Abrahams, did I do okay?

His director smiled. You did just fine.

He could see Sam watching the Davises drive away.

Don’t you ever mind the words of a detractor, young man. Just keep working at what you need to do, and keep your eye on the prize.

Yes, sir. Sam grinned. You sound like Dr. King.

Actually, that’s St. Paul.

Oh, okay.

By now, everyone had filed down from the loft and moseyed outside to the parking lot to head home—everyone except for Dr. Abrahams and Sam. They transported the last of his drums to Sam’s waiting car, where he began to apologize.

That one part, you know that one part? It seems to go by so fast, you know, the one?

Yes, I know the one. Everybody heard it! Heh, heh, but don’t worry. The syncopation caught you unawares, like a whole lot of big bumps in the road.

More like a dead end!

We’ll take a look at it tomorrow, after school, if that works for you. Remember to take your time with it. Work out the rhythm at a slower pace first. That’s the thing. When rhythms change on you, just keep listening. You’ll learn to roll with them. Then, you can get up to speed.

Dr. Abrahams was a natural-born teacher. He had been the music director at Lincoln, the all-black high school, for ten years, and compiled a record of award-winning marching and concert band performances, earning nine sweepstakes awards. But the awards and accolades from his time at Lincoln went disregarded after integration.

He was hired by the blended district to serve as the assistant for all bands, from fifth grade beginner, to junior high, to high school. He roamed from campus to campus while the high school band director taught only two sections of music per day, and earned nearly 50 percent more in salary. Mr. Dunn had only one sweepstakes award to his credit in a thirty-two-year career.

Dr. Abrahams did not complain. It was not that he knew his place. Oh, no. He had a higher calling. When the merger had relegated Miles Abrahams to the less significant role, what the new district had inadvertently done was guarantee his ongoing influence with every band student across all the school campuses for as long as they remained in the program. Already, he was one of the students’ most beloved teachers in any program in the Silton, Texas school district.

Dr. Abrahams waited for Sam to drive away before he turned out the lights and locked up the church building.

Sam drove east out of the neighborhood, past the old, abandoned Lincoln High School. The campus looked mysterious in its disuse, even foreboding. It was sparsely lit, and the overgrown vegetation rustled in the slight breeze. Flood lamps cast jagged, asymmetrical streaks of white light through the dark, waving shadows.

He then followed Fifth Street north, crossing through the heart of town, and beyond the city limit toward his home off Hicks Farm Road. Along the route, he continued working out the rhythm. The steering wheel became his snare, the dashboard his toms, the floorboard his bass. His arms flailed about as he gave no thought to how strange he must have appeared to anyone whom might have seen him pass by.

A few miles out of town, he turned onto the blacktop of the farm road. The narrow lane of asphalt divided the wooded thickets and open fields along its way. Deep bar ditches flanked the road, still trickling with cascading puddles from heavy rain the day before. Eventually, he would turn onto the dirt drive that split the pine trees leading up to his farmhouse.

As he drew closer to home, he passed the property of his neighbor, Annabelle Haskins. She was a mystery all her own. He had never been introduced, but he had seen her at a distance plenty of times.

Her land spread for hundreds of acres on both sides of the blacktop. A thick grove of oak trees obscured her home’s elevation by daylight. By night, parallel rows of ceramic luminarias guided the eyes along a paved drive to the main house. Their low-lying light dispersed upward into the oak grove that masked the view of her home. Thus lit, the mighty oak trunks thrust eerily skyward, as though bearing the weight of the heavy darkness above.

In the daylight, Sam’s house was partially visible from the road. At night, though, passersby could miss seeing anything if it were not for the watchtower his father had built among the tall pines. From its high wooden platform, a beacon light shone down upon the front porch. When his father was home, the light was turned off, making the approach pitch black and difficult. Tonight, the light was on, and Sam wheeled off the blacktop, glad that he had the house to himself for a while before bedtime.

He pulled up to the white gravel carport in front of the porch and parked the station wagon. The blue Chevy wagon was not at all sexy, definitely not a hot rod or muscle car, but he felt lucky to be driving anything. He had been given the keys when his mother was committed to the hospital a little over two years earlier. And the spaciousness of the vehicle was convenient for hauling around his drum set.

Fortunately, Sam was taking his drums to school the next day, so he did not need to unload them. He hurried straight inside to get ready for bed. He checked the message board in the kitchen for notes. Nothing to read there. He downed a swig of milk and chomped a couple of graham crackers. In his room, he undressed quickly and tossed his clothes into the hamper by his closet.

Sam kept his room neat for a teenaged boy. It was not in tip-top shape, like for the military, but everything was put away. On his walls and chest of drawers rested framed pictures of his mom and dad, his grandparents, and his great grandparents. A ferrotype of his great, great ancestor, Captain Eli Kelly, hung prominently on a wall unto itself. A movie poster of his favorite film, Shenandoah, hung on the door. His sixteen-gauge shotgun leaned in the corner, nestled against the doorjamb, hidden from sight when the door was open. A Confederate battle flag adorned the wall above his headboard. He thought, Captain Kelly was a drummer boy. He’d have been proud of me tonight!

There was no telling when his dad would make it home, nor in what condition. Thursday would be a long day, so Sam hit the hay right away. The moonlight on his window shade cast a shadow of the tree directly outside his room. A whispering wind stirred the branches. His gaze fixed upon its silent, spectral dance until his vision blurred. Sammy could not keep his eyes open. He was asleep soon after his head met the pillow.

VERA STONE WORE HER BLONDE HAIR in a beehive. She sprayed it so stiff that not one of her follicles dared sneak out of place. It was like her beautician always said: The higher the hair, the closer to heaven, y’all! Vera Stone was nothing if not a godly woman.

As one of the high school’s two counselors, she enjoyed broad latitude over everything at the campus. Because of her position, and her close personal relationship with the principal, she had the freedom to schedule her days as she pleased. Her access to students’ files was total, and her access to teachers’ time bordered on despotic. But it was not her influence on the academic careers of others that she valued so highly; it was her sway on their personal lives. She knew everyone’s business and what they had done ten minutes before they had done it. Vera Stone was the quintessential small-town queen of all she surveyed.

On Thursday, April 4, 1968, she entered the Silton High School lobby with her arms full of files at a precisely predictable 7:45 a.m. There, she would find the usual crowd of students, and she would glide through them like a hot knife through butter to the top of the steps where the six-foot-wide glass doors gave entrance to the main hall and office complex. She thought of the students as her subjects, and on some mornings, she would single out one or more of them to enter the hall before classes began. She didn’t do it in a flashy way, but she made it noticeable, nonetheless.

As usual, Carol Sweet would want to enter early to get to the science lab or the library or to pester a teacher about a fraction of a grade point. Everyone knew that Carol Sweet intended to make the valedictory speech in May, and Mrs. Stone always let Carol break the rule and enter the hall early. To those that have, more shall be given, Vera Stone would retort to any who complained.

Others asked for early entry too. No matter the reason, few ever received a dispensation from the counselor. It was a roll of the dice.

Never hurts to ask, Catfish told Sam, after she rejected his request. Someday she might grow a heart.

Sam snorted.

Mrs. Stone did not hear Catfish’s comment, but she did hear Sam’s laugh. It drew her disapproving eye to them, several bodies deep into the crowd. She asked Sam to come up and open the door for her.

Sam’s eyes widened toward Catfish, who murmured softly, Aw hell, man. Sorry.

Sam complied. As he held the door for Mrs. Stone, she told him she needed him to go with her and open the doors to the office area, then the teachers’ lounge, through the back hall, and to her office. He said, Certainly, glancing back at Catfish with an eyeroll. Sam’s father would already be handling classroom duties in the shop and woodworking building, no matter how late or drunk he’d made it home the night before. There was no chance of running into him.

Along the route, Mrs. Stone spoke only to teachers and administrators, ignoring Sam even as he scurried around and held the series of doors for her. When they passed through the teachers’ lounge, the cigarette smoke hung from shoulder height to the ceiling in a sick, smelly fog. Two teachers greeted Mrs. Stone and Sam, though only one took the cigarette from her lips to do so. The other, Mr. Waggoner, let his butt dangle beneath his bushy mustache as he spoke. Ashes dropped at his enunciation of the T in Stone.

Sam had studied freshman algebra with Mr. Waggoner. That class convinced Sam he did not want to pursue a career in mathematics, neither academically nor any other way. He had taken geometry, as required, his sophomore year, and earned top scores. He enjoyed geometry. It combined well with physics to help Sam’s pool game immensely. Angles and English made sense to him.

Sam was a junior now, and he was perfectly okay with someone else, like another Carol Sweet, claiming the valedictory prize his senior year. He already took some of the same advanced classes as she did, but he saw how hard she worked. He’d rather have a little fun, and a life, maybe.

When they made it to Mrs. Stone’s office, she plopped her stack of files onto her desk.

Shut the door, Sam, and sit down.

His spine began to crawl upward toward his shoulders. In the blink of an eye, he was pretty sure he had become aware of the functioning of his medulla oblongata, and of everything it controlled too.

Yes, ma’am. Is there something you wanted to talk about?

Yes, as a matter of fact, there is.

Sometimes, Vera Stone could be as obtuse as a southern belle blessing your little heart. This morning, she was blunt as a bludgeon.

What is going on between you and the coloreds?

Sam’s brain tripped over a mental double take. I beg your pardon?

I want to know. You’ve become terribly chummy with several colored students. Faculty members have noticed. I’ve noticed.

Sam glanced at the shut door.

Your daddy has noticed. Why, just this week he asked me what I thought was going on, and I said, ‘Well, I don’t know, but I’ll surely get to the bottom of it.’ . . . So?

They’re my friends, that’s all. Sam’s mind stumbled for a foothold under the ensuing barrage of her questions. One after another. Rapid fire. She became the machine gun and her office chair his foxhole. At last, Mrs. Stone held a pause for impact. Then, she fired a final volley.

Is it Abrahams that’s put you up to it?

Up to what? thought Sam. He didn’t speak those words lest he sound insolent. Cautious words crept out of his mouth instead.

I’m friends with everybody. Or, at least, I hope to be.

Stone scowled.

Dr. Abrahams is just our teacher . . . and a good one. Really good.

Uh-huh. Well, I’ll talk with him soon enough. She shifted gears. Integration is a tricky thing, Sam. We just want you to be careful. Think twice about whom you spend your time with.

Her eyes scanned his body from head to toe. Sam surmised that Mrs. Stone was searching his demeanor for any sign of a response not forthcoming in his words. It hit him: she was not overly concerned about him hanging out with Catfish. The real target must be his relationship with Teary Lee. He would not let Mrs. Stone see that he comprehended her meaning.

Think twice, and always ask yourself, ‘Would my mama approve?’ Think of her, Sam, all alone in her room in Rusk State Hospital, counting on your daddy to raise you right. Now, don’t you let her down.

The bell rang, and Vera Stone sent Sam White Jr. off to first period.

How dare that witch bring up my mother! Who does she think she is?

The conference consumed his thoughts through first period band, and he missed a cutoff. Catfish’s chuckle and wide-eyed glances from the directors drew only an apologetic shrug from Sam.

Sam barely paid attention through his morning classes as he searched his memory for slipups. Dad must be the real source of Stone’s warning. Had to be. Since his mother had gone away, Sam’s dad had made it plain that he didn’t approve of his son pursuing friendships with black students. It’s not as though we get to hang out that much, Sam thought. There’s school, and the occasional meetup at the movie theater or special events like the fair. And my time with Teary Lee only happens in group settings . . .

He had been able to convince his father to let him play drums at the AME church only because it was a limited commitment, and he had presented it as a perfunctory gesture to come to the aid of one of his teachers.

This new development infuriated Sam. Still, he was glad the assault on his choice of friends had come indirectly instead of full-frontal. Now, he knew that his dad was onto him. He knew that others must be watching and reporting on him whenever he spoke with Teary Lee. We have to be even more careful.

At lunch, Sam sat with his table of friends. Theirs was the only integrated table in the cafeteria. Randy and Chip were white, as were Darcy and Myra. Elizabeth and Catfish were black, and the one light brown-skinned girl was from Latin America. She was an exchange student from Brazil, and her name was Paola. They affectionately called her Cocoa, their Token Mocha. Only Teary Lee was missing from their daily crew.

So, what was up with Mrs. Stone this morning? What she want with you?

It was nothing, Cat. Sam avoided eye contact. Really, nothing at all.

Catfish looked more startled than when Sam had wrecked the measure of music earlier.

Must be serious, then, if you don’t want to talk about it. Hey, Myra, our boy’s in trouble.

Myra smiled. Her blue eyes sparkled like sapphires. Auburn hair framed the glow of her lustrous cheeks. She raised a knowing eyebrow.

I bet someone’s just missing Teary Lee.

The table roared with laughter. Sam read the room. Students three tables over noticed. So did the faculty monitors. Miss Flowers, their advanced English literature teacher, walked over.

How’s everything with my favorite table? Are we having fun?

Paola spoke first. We feel the happiness today!

You mean happy, Paola. We feel happy. Chip plainly enjoyed teasing her. She was always ready to push back.

Eez happiness not a theeng?

Yes, happiness ‘eez a theeng.’

Then that eez the theeng we are feeling theez day.

She wobbled her head in a knowing gesture. You see, I speak my Eenglish good!

The teacher laughed. She tossed a look toward other tables, joking, Yes, you speak good-er English than some of my American students.

Oh, but Meez Flowers, I am American. I am South American!

Caitlyn Flowers paused. Yes, I suppose you are, Paola. Right. Well, I’ll see most of this crew next period. Better finish your lunch.

She walked away. Sam was eager for her to read his latest paper, and to change the subject.

What did everybody write about?

Paola would not let him off the hook so easily. Who cares? What time of the clock does Teary Lee come home today?

After seven, I think. That’s some bus ride, Memphis to Silton, said Elizabeth.

I’ve written a comparison of John Proctor and Sydney Carton. I think I killed it.

Redundant.

Randy spoke at last, and the conversation stopped. When Randy spoke, it was usually totally off the wall, or really deep, or both.

Why’s that? asked Catfish.

Darcy moaned. Killed it. They both get their necks stretched . . . She made a gesture with her hand of three rolling pauses in the air like the dots of an ellipsis.

The crew groaned and cleaned their table as they rushed off to the noisy bell for next period.

Elizabeth walked with Sam to their lockers, then to the classroom.

The bus is supposed to arrive at Ebenezer AME Church at 7:10 p.m., to be exact . . . just in case you can make it! I know you want to! She smiled sweetly and gave Sam a wink.

He could think of nothing else through the remainder of the school day. He trained his eyes on the clock. The second hand seemed to tick its way through drying cement.

This class, too, shall pass, he thought. He would be certain to meet the bus right on time.

SAM WHITE BEAT HIS FATHER HOME, despite staying after school to work with Dr. Abrahams on the tricky rhythm patterns. Mr. White had tended to afterschool responsibilities, too, straightening and sweeping up the shop area. Though he had assigned student crews to help each day of the week, Mr. White chose to be present and involved. It was his policy to never allow unsupervised students in his classroom, especially with so many saws and other tools. One neglectful moment could result in dire consequences, and he was bound and determined that no such calamity would occur on his watch.

At home, Sam put off unloading his drum set until after he raided the kitchen for a snack. His dad had left some fried cornbread in the fridge, and Sam took a couple of pieces. He devoured them before he got back to the station wagon, where he picked up the cymbal bags first. The screen door swatted his backside on his way back into the house. As Sam returned to the car for the second load, his father turned off the blacktop.

Sam feigned ignorance of the approaching vehicle, picking up the floor tom and trying to look as busy at work as he could. His dad’s truck slalomed to a halt, slinging shards of the white gravel toward the front porch. He bolted out of the truck door with a bottle in his hand.

Get in, Sam!

The bottle in his father’s hand looked two swigs shy of a fifth.

I have to unload the drums, sir. And, if it’s alright, I promised some friends I’d study with them at Chip’s. It was a lie, but a white one.

Put down that damn drum and get in this truck, Sam Jr.

While Sam put the tom back into the car, his father strode around the side of the house and flipped on the switch to the beacon at the top of the tower. An electric buzz hummed on high. Sam knew what that meant. They would not be home before dark. Any hope of meeting the bus from Memphis disintegrated in the stark beam bearing down from the watchtower above.

His father wheeled onto the blacktop in the direction heading away from town and sped along the narrow two-lane. It was after four o’clock, and Sam pined for some way to see Teary Lee that night. If the meeting in Mrs. Stone’s office was any omen, I might not ever see her again. Sam gripped the armrest tightly as the bumps and curves threatened to sling them into the ditch or the trees.

Eventually, the pale green Chevy truck emerged at the intersection with the highway. Soon after, they pulled up to a honky-tonk eight miles out of town, at the county line, where Sam Sr. killed the motor. The driver’s side door slammed shut. I’ll just be a minute, he barked through the half-rolled-down window. Wait here.

Sam Jr. did as he was told. He waited. There. Alone. In the pale green pickup. He waited. And he watched.

One by one, other men pulled up and entered the beer joint. They rolled up like a soggy sandstorm. Their tires and boots kicked up crusted chunks of drying mud as they converged upon the watering hole. A dozen or more swarmed to the pack inside.

What a grimy gathering of miscreants, thought Sam.

For an hour and twenty-two minutes, Sam watched and waited. Daylight was dying when his dad finally emerged from the barrelhouse. By his lurch, he appeared two-out-of-three sheets to the wind. Sammy hoped they could still get back home before darkness fell completely. Then, he remembered the lit beacon. Brace yourself, Sammy. This could be a wild ride.

Mr. White climbed in and turned the ignition switch. You hear that? Three on the tree! he boasted for the thousandth time. They don’t make ’em like this ’nymore . . . They don’t make nothin’ like they should ’nymore. His breath filled the car with a putrid, sweet odor of bourbon infused with tobacco spit. A red aluminum glass served Sam Sr. as a spittoon.

"Tonight’s the night