We stood to leave, and Stacey said, “Thank you kindly, sheriff, but we know our way out.”
“Suit yourself,” said the sheriff, and opened the office door. He walked out in front of us. We stepped outside with the deputy following. Statler and Leon and their boys were gone, but Charlie Simms and his sons remained, their truck parked behind the Oldsmobile. Across the street on the square, the same colored folks who had been there when we entered the sheriff’s office were still there. The sheriff looked across at them and hollered, “Y’all nigras gathered yonder, ya get goin’! Don’t be loitering on that square! Get on ’bout your business!”
Reluctantly, slowly, the men dispersed. The man to whom Stacey had given a nod nodded back once more and we went to the Oldsmobile and got in.
“Y’all drive safe now,” said the sheriff.
Stacey glanced over at the men leaving the square and pulled out. Charlie Simms in his truck pulled out behind us. The sheriff and his deputy stood on the sidewalk watching. We rolled slowly through the town, barely meeting the speed limit.
“What do you think?” asked Christopher-John, glancing back at the Simms truck.
“What do I think?” repeated Stacey, checking the rearview mirror. “I think we’re in real trouble now.”
Within minutes we were out of Strawberry and on the rural road that led to the highway. All around us were fields. Soon there would be only woods, dense, dark woods. “We could make a run for it now,” suggested Christopher-John.
I looked back at him. “What, and have them shooting at us?”
“Better them shooting at us than they take us over and we end up on one of those back roads. What you think, Stacey? We going to make a run for it or not?”
Stacey did not reply. He sped up. Charlie Simms and his boys sped up too.
“We can easily outrun them,” Little Man said.
“Not hardly,” said Stacey. “Look who’s parked up yonder.”
I sighed. “Oh, Lord.” Up ahead was the Aames truck.
“They’re going to try to block us in,” said Christopher-John. “They’ll do it before we hit the highway.”
As we neared Statler’s truck, it swung out in front of us. This time Statler didn’t stop, but his speed was slow. Stacey had to slow down too. We rolled on for more than a mile. Our fear mounted. Forest was all around.
Man leaned forward, his right arm resting on top of the front seat. “Stacey, we can still outrun them. Up ahead where there’s that crossroads, then that store and the gas pumps, there’s enough room you could swing right in front of those pumps, round that space, and get in front of Statler. He won’t be able to keep up with this Oldsmobile.”
I glanced at Man. “You know they’ve got to have guns.”
“Course they do,” Man acknowledged, “but we’re going to have to take that chance before they force us off onto one of these back roads.”
Christopher-John and Clayton were right and we all knew it. The knot of fear that had begun to swell since the sheriff first stopped us was about to burst. I wanted to throw up. We approached the crossroads. Stacey made his move. Suddenly ramming on the gas, he turned sharply and sped toward the store. Statler stopped his truck. Charlie Simms followed us toward the store. Stacey rounded the pumps and got in front of Statler’s truck. At that, Leon leaned out the passenger window. A shotgun was in his hands. He shot right at us and hit the trunk of the car.
“What the—”
“Lord have mercy!”
“Good God A-Mighty!”
“Get down!” Stacey shouted, and jammed the gas pedal to the floor.
“But what about you?” I cried.
“I’m going to drive like a bat out of hell! Now, get down, Cassie! All of you, get down!”
We all followed his orders. There was no terror greater for black folks than being chased by white folks on a back country road. I bent down, my chest to my legs, and wrapped my arms around my knees. I could see the rusty dust rising and billowing around the car as Stacey drove at a reckless speed, and I prayed that Stacey’s skills as a big-rig driver all those years ago were still intact. If we could just reach the highway maybe we would have a chance. I wanted to see how close Statler and Leon were behind us, but I kept down. I turned my head, looked at Stacey. His hands were gripping the wheel as if they were glued to it. His face was like stone, his eyes straight ahead. I said nothing to him, not even to ask him to slow down. He didn’t need that from me right now. Stacey had been at the wheel when we sped through the mountains of Wyoming, and he had been at the wheel when we had fled the wrath of white men while taking Moe to Memphis. He had our lives in his hands and he knew that. As we fled toward the highway, our terror swelling like a coming thunderstorm, I thought of Morris, of what his fear must have been as he was chased into the Rosa Lee. After several long minutes, the car began to slow—not much, but enough for me to know we were merging onto the highway. I heard other cars whizzing past. Then Stacey changed lanes and sped up again. “Can we get up now?” I asked.
Stacey glanced at the mirror. “Wait until we’re closer to Jackson.”
“Are they behind us?”
Stacey shook his head. “Don’t see them.”
I sat up. So did Christopher-John and Little Man. “Jackson’s too far,” I said. Stacey just glanced at me, then looked back to the highway. Christopher-John, Little Man, and I looked behind us, checking for ourselves that the trucks were no longer following. We began to breathe easier. All of us were shaken by the ride and none of us spoke as Stacey, hands still tight on the wheel, drove toward the city. The time seemed endless, but there were no sirens, no trucks following us. I continued silently to pray.
Finally, we reached Jackson.
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
We headed toward Capitol Street. It was far too late for the funeral. We were on Farish Street, which intersected with Capitol. From there we planned to turn up Capitol toward the Old Capitol building at the end of the street and head for Little Willie’s. Traffic was slow as we neared downtown. Then it moved to a crawl. Then it didn’t move at all. The south end of Farish going north toward Capitol was a one-way street with three lanes. All of them were jammed. We were in the curb lane.
“What’s happening?” I said.
Stacey tried to peer around the car in front of us. “Don’t know,” he said.
It was hot in the car. The air conditioner was not working. We rolled down our windows. We could hear shouting up ahead. People in their cars, stuck just as we were, began honking their horns, as if that would get the traffic moving again, but it was of no use. None of us were going anywhere. We were all blocked in. We just had to wait it out. A few white people got out of their cars to see if they could detect what the problem was. We all kept on waiting. After some time, we heard people coming, then saw them as they filled the sidewalks on both sides of the street. All the people walking were white. We rolled up our windows. As the people passed, they talked loudly, taunting the Negro passengers in cars stuck in the traffic snarl. A small group stopped beside the Oldsmobile. “Got us some northern niggers here!” one of the group announced, as he and several others took a closer look at the Oldsmobile. “Just check out them plates! Ohio!”