Admit The Horse Read online

  The large antebellum plantation house on top of the hill had seen better days. The paint on its longleaf pine clapboards was peeling, and the pigs and chickens routinely broke their pens and wandered around the enclosed back yard. Despite all the entreaties of land agents sent by the Department of Agriculture, Drew Jackson distrusted the “Yankee government.” He refused their no-interest loans, refused to mechanize, refused to rotate crops. Beetle or no, Georgia was the South, and in the South, cotton was king. Stubbornly ignoring declining prices (and losing a third of the crop each year to the weevil), Jackson, like many other landowners around the state, continued to plant cotton right up to his front door.

  One midsummer night, when Big John arrived to work in the yard, he quickly noticed all the electric lights in the house were out. The day had been long and hot, the sun pregnant and heavy in the Georgia sky. But the turn to twilight was hardly better, the air so heavy and damp it made a man’s lungs beg for every molecule of oxygen. Over the ridge, sloe-eyed alligators floated purposefully in the lazy river current, watching, waiting. Everything around the house was strangely still—even the fool chickens had been penned—as if the world itself was holding its breath, waiting to exhale.

  Someone with a soft, cultured voice holding a lantern called out to him from the wide-columned porch. “Are you called Big John?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he replied, as struck by her sudden appearance as if she were a spirit. She gestured for him to follow her into the dark and silent house. He climbed the staircase behind her, still holding his hat.

  “Mr. Jackson,” she explained, had “taken sick very suddenly,” and she required his assistance. As he entered the upstairs bedroom, he noticed for the first time a large, angry bruise on her cheek and a bloody handkerchief tied around her hand. Drew Jackson was sprawled on the wide-planked wood floor of the elegant upstairs bedroom with a gunshot wound to his head. Dead. In the flickering light of the lantern Big John noticed that the dog Cotton sat silently by his master’s body, as inscrutable as ever. Amalia Jackson looked steadily at Big John, her wide-set intelligent eyes never leaving his face. Her voice was soft, but determined, as if daring him to disagree.

  “Mr. Jackson was taken ill very suddenly. I fear it was the fever, and therefore it would be best to bury him immediately.”

  Big John knew better than to ask questions. “Yes, ma’am,” was all he said. A hundred years before, the town of Oglethorpe had been wiped out by so-called “river fever.” State health officials were still arguing about whether it was smallpox or malaria that had done it. It didn’t matter to the ‘new’ settlers. With so few doctors, fear of the unknown—of contagion—was still palpable. No one would voluntarily risk himself by checking on Drew Jackson.

  In the dark, Big John went down to the hay barn, found some wooden planks and fashioned a simple casket. He placed the body in the casket and nailed the lid shut. He put the casket on the old wagon and carried it to the plantation’s ancient family graveyard, where he dug a hole in the red Georgia clay, and buried it deep.

  The dog Cotton had followed the coffin’s meager little procession, as if he had somehow nominated himself chief mourner. When Big John placed the last spadeful of red clay over the grave, he turned to see the big white dog regarding him stoically. He was in the habit of talking to animals, so as he took a break, leaning on the shovel, he spoke to the dog.

  “I didn’t have nothing to do with this—and don’t you think I did. But I ain’t sorry just the same, and you shouldn’t be sorry none, neither.”

  When Big John returned to the house, the dog followed silently, positioning himself alertly on his haunches by the back door, as if in readiness to greet some foreign queen or potentate. Miss Amalia had laid out a cold supper for Big John in the kitchen. He could see she was trying to shield her bruised face from his view. “I want you to eat all you want, Big John, then I need you to leave here and tell everyone to stay away—that we have the sickness here—that I myself am sick unto death and that the master has died of it. You hear Big John? That’s exactly what you tell them.”

  He nodded, dropped his eyes, and continued eating, not sure what to say. They both knew if he told anyone, she’d fry in the state’s electric chair, like poor Lena Baker from Cuthbert over in Randolph County. She’d raised her hand against an abusive white man, too. The trial that sentenced her to death by electrocution had lasted four hours.

  Unexpectedly, Miss Amalia placed her hand on his shoulder.

  “Big John?” He looked up.

  “Things will be different around here now. I promise.”

  As she turned to leave the kitchen, he could see the weariness in her, but a new resolve, too. She turned her head.

  “Come on, Cotton; I guess you belong to me now.”

  The stately, silent dog rose quietly to follow her, and for the first time in his life, Big John saw him wag his tail.

  Things had been different. Miss Amalia sold the commissary to a local man, who ran it as a small general store, even the poorest croppers now preferring to do most of their shopping on weekly trips to town, anyway. But Miss Amalia saw to it that accounts were presented at the end of every month, and for the first time in their lives the Riverview sharecroppers felt that if an accounting mistake was made, they could point it out without fear of retribution.

  Despite her genteel upbringing, Miss Amalia showed a surprising head for business. But what she discovered could not have failed to dishearten her. The situation was nothing short of desperate. It was hard to find good men to farm the land. So many had left in search of better jobs and more money working in one of the factories up north. The planters themselves were forced to borrow money at a ruinous 15% for the seed, animals and equipment they needed to supply the croppers who worked their land. Even worse, under the terms of the agreement signed by her husband, she was contractually obligated to sell to certain Nashville cotton brokers who were notorious for not giving a fair price. Louis XIV had famously said: “Credit supports agriculture as the rope supports the hanged.” Riverview was hanging all right, hanging by a thread.

  Most of the southern planters were victims of the innocuously termed “crop lien,” whereby the future cotton crop was pledged as collateral to merchants in exchange for desperately needed necessities. Consequently, planters all over the South were driving cotton production to historic levels—causing the increased supply to make the price drop still further. When the weevils got in, it was even worse: they lost everything.

  One day, Miss Amalia drove to Big John’s tidy farm. No one had ever seen her drive before. She emerged from the long, elegant car, Cotton by her side. As she stood in the little yard, she shielded her eyes from the sun’s glare with a gloved hand. “Good afternoon, Big John. Afternoon, Mrs. Tummy. Afternoon, Miss Miriam.” Miss Amalia always spoke to the children.

  “Afternoon, Miz Amalia. Afternoon, Cotton.”

  Cotton thumped his tail on the hard ground.

  Miriam ran up to give the big white dog a pat. Cotton licked her little hand with silent decorum.

  “Mrs. Tummy, do you grow any goober peas in your back garden, by chance?”

  “Well, yes. Yes, I do.”

  “Would you be so kind as to show them to me?”

  As Miss Amalia started to follow Miz Tummy, she noticed the big white dog held back. “Well come on, then, Cotton,” she said with a wink at Big John and Miz Tummy. “We might as well see what you think of them, too.”

  With self-conscious dignity, Cotton padded after them on silent feet.

  Miz Tummy was justifiably proud of her back garden. Runner beans were carefully staked, shiny-skinned red tomatoes basked in the rutilant Georgia sun, and lettuce and cabbage burst from the neat rows like green flower bouquets. In the back, planted almost as an afterthought, were the goober peas.

  Goobers came from the Kikonga word “Nguba” and had been brought to North America by African slaves. An unusual plant—it was known by a variety of names: earthnuts, g
oobers, pandas, jack nuts, monkey nuts. By any name, they were difficult to grow and harvest due to their unusual growing habits. Most croppers grew them as subsistence crops, food of last resort. White folks mostly grew them for their pigs, allowing the hogs the task of uprooting the below-ground beans.

  Miss Amalia surveyed the short row of bushy, broad-leafed plants. The plants stood about a foot and a half high with a small yellow flower.

  Miss Amalia directed her questions at Miriam’s mother.

  “Mrs. Tummy, how early may they be planted?’ she asked politely.

  “Late April, early May, depending on the year, Miz Amalia,” Miz Tummy replied.

  Miss Amalia nodded. “And how long until it flowers?”

  Miz Tummy cocked her head to the side, making the calculations. “I reckon about another month and a week.”

  “And after it flowers, this part,” Miss Amalia gestured at the flower stems with a gloved hand, “…will push its way under the ground, is that right?”

  “Yes, ma’am, right into the dirt,” Miz Tummy replied, nodding her head.

  Miss Amalia regarded the plant quizzically. “It’s quite a peculiar plant, isn’t it?”

  Miz Tummy replied with a smile. “Mighty peculiar, Miz Amalia, but good to eat, keeps fine, and plenty fortifying to the blood.”

  Miss Amalia smiled. “And then, Mrs. Tummy, how long before the goober nut appears?”

  Miz Tummy considered. “Well, let’s see. Perhaps two more months in the ground, depending on the season.”

  “So planting to harvest is about five, six, months, is that right?” asked Miss Amalia.

  Miz Tummy responded, “Yes, ma’am, I reckon that’s mighty near.”

  Miss Amalia looked unconvinced. “So how does one get at the nut?”

  Miz Tummy chuckled. “Well, that’s the funny part. You got to keep them goobers out of the dirt…”

  “Even though they grew in the dirt…?” Miss Amalia questioned.

  “That’s right,” Miz Tummy said with a chuckle. “So first ways, you gotta pull-up the plant, then you turns him over, upside down- like, and let the goobers dry. Then after four days or so, you pull ‘em off the stalk nice and easy.”

  Miss Amalia considered the strange plants. “My great grandfather ate these fighting the Yankees. He called them peanuts. The soldiers used to roast them, or eat them right out of the shell.”

  Big John was burning with curiosity. “Why you so interested in goobers, Miss Amalia? This here’s food for rich man’s pigs and poor folks—ain’t never gonna bring the kind of cash cotton do, if we could just keep them weevils off.”

  He could see she was torn.

  “Big John. I understand your hesitation. I do,” she said, swatting away the late afternoon no-see-ums attracted by the carbon dioxide of their breathing. “…but we can’t keep the weevils off. We’ve done everything the land agent advised—burning the old stalks, hoeing the rows, cleaning up the leaf cover...” She paused, looking at him sympathetically. “I see how careful you are in your own fields, Big John. I believe all the farmers are doing their best. But none of it has made a bit of difference, has it?”

  “Not much, I reckon,” Big John replied, shaking his head sadly.

  Miss Amalia nodded. “Times are changing, and I expect we must change right along with them. They’ve got new machines now, not just to plant the goobers but to harvest, shell, and clean them, as well.”

  “Is that right?” Big John had seen the big combines at work in other plantations, but only from a distance.

  “I’m not sure I can altogether believe it myself,” Miss Amalia said with a laugh, “…but it’s what the agricultural agent tells me, Big John.”

  Miriam’s father had a great deal of respect for Miss Amalia, but he was a plainspoken man. Since the late 1930s, farming all over the South had been changing rapidly. Largely as a result of the catastrophic depredations of the boll weevil, the federal government was offering incentives to landowners to replace cotton with livestock and feed crops, including subsidies to mechanize. However, machinery was still expensive and could only be efficient on consolidated farms—not patchworks of ten and twenty acres all independently managed. The consequence: mules and tenants were being replaced by tractors and wage hands all over the state. Croppers had been evicted, or their holdings reduced to a few acres—inadequate to provide for their families, but a sufficient incentive that many would stay. Croppers had no choice but to augment their incomes by accepting the 75¢ a day for working the plantations’ “home farms.” And, with an ever-declining labor force, the landowners had little choice but to mechanize and consolidate.

  When rumors started to fly among the croppers that Miss Amalia wanted all the croppers farming her land to switch over to peanuts and livestock, Big John felt he needed to make her aware of their concern.

  “Miss Amalia—folks around here...Well, can I speak plain with you, Miss Amalia?” he asked in his deep voice.

  “I hope you always do,” Miss Amalia replied simply.

  “Well, you ain’t a man, Miss Amalia.”

  Miss Amalia regarded him seriously, waiting.

  Big John noticed her reaction and nodded. “Yes, ma’am—but people ’round here, they like to follow the history of things and ain’t no history of things with a nice genteel lady running no dirty farm.”

  “I see,” Miss Amalia replied, her voice expressionless.

  “I’m not saying you ain’t been doing a fine job—all I’m saying is that when you try to change people’s course—when it’s a course they’ve been on their whole life—they ain’t easy to move…so when you tell folks we’re all going to do better growing no-account pig food,” Big John paused, “well, those folks may not be so easy in their minds about some such thing like that.”

  Miss Amalia looked past Big John at the tilled fields.

  “Big John, years ago, did you ever see a Carver Bulletin?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I know of Professor Carver,” Big John said proudly. One of the first things he’d asked Miriam to read to him was the Reader’s Digest autobiography he’d been saving for years about Professor George Washington Carver of the Tuskegee Institute in Alabama: A Boy Who Was Traded for a Horse.

  Miss Amalia continued: “I’ve been reading some of the old bulletins about the work he did with peanuts. Not only is there a growing demand for peanut products—particularly in candy and so forth, but he claims planting peanuts will actually improve the soil. If we have to go back to cotton, we’ll be none the worse for it.”

  Big John considered: “Professor Carver was a fine man, Miss Amalia,” Big John said slowly, “…but folks ’round here just want to be sure they can feed their families and put a little by. Understand…” he paused, thoughtfully. “I hear what you’re saying—but one bad year is all it takes to wipe some folks out. Some of them sure to be thinking if we can get some of them cotton bolls—leastways, there’s a market for whatever crop we git.”

  So, Miss Amalia threw a party…and she invited all the croppers on her land. Of course, her farmers knew all about goober nuts as a subsistence crop, but none were as yet awake to the commercial applications of the strange legumes. Was there really a market if they grew them, they worried? And was the market too new? Too new to ensure that a reliable buyer could be found—season after season?

  So Miss Amalia set out to make her case by providing a demonstration. She put out heaping bowls of Cracker Jack (created 1893), and Planters roasted peanuts (created 1908), salvers of Oh Henry! bars (created 1920) and silver trays stacked with Babe Ruth bars (created 1920). Next came silver Revere bowls full of Butterfingers (created 1923) and Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups (created 1925). And as they were eating, she told the croppers they were all going to start growing peanuts—and perhaps under the mellowing influence of all that chocolate, they agreed. All, that is, but Muncie, who might have agreed eventually, but apparently had an undiagnosed peanut allergy and died of anaphylaxis on the ride home. Of cour
se, ever the pragmatist, Miz Tummy observed to the preacher at Whitewater Baptist that his loss probably would have been felt more keenly if he had been a better farmer.

  Chapter Ten

  Chicago, Illinois

  AS THE DETECTIVE ENTERED THE APARTMENT, he was struck by the urgent smell of decomposition. The victim was male, early forties, African American—but he would have known that any way because the church was involved.

  “Our choirmaster,” The Minister had said. Long dreadlocks, manicured nails and a complexion as even and cared for as a woman’s, Harrison noticed.

  “A nice young man, a schoolteacher during the week, perhaps not as selective as he should have been about his companions,” said The Minister. “Gay” was left unsaid, because to The Minister’s conservative African American congregation, homosexuality was the unmentionable sin. Perhaps because of the great fear that some men in the community were on the “down low” (perhaps even, rumors suggested, The Minister himself), the church carefully disassociated itself from outreach or involvement in the GLBT community. Even the nutty Catholic priest—queer as a three-dollar bill, inexplicably joined in the condemnation.

  The Minister had been reserved, cautious on the phone. Apparently, he felt an obligation to a former member of his congregation. But clearly, too, he had bigger fish to fry than becoming entangled in any sordid goings-on of the homosexual population of Chicago. Harrison had done some checking: the choirmaster was charismatic and well liked by all accounts, if a little flamboyant. But Harrison found it hard to believe anyone would have held that against him. He had attended the church on a few occasions, and those guys all played to the back rows. The cavernous concrete barn was famous for being more theater than church; every sermon more a test of The Minister’s showmanship and acting ability than knowledge of the scriptures. Flamboyant was what those guys were all about. Flamboyant was what financed The Minister’s expensive lifestyle, kept the fannies in the seats, kept the lights on.