Patricia Kindred
I Remember Emmett Till
(An Excerpt from the Deposition of Vikki Jane Madison)
“Come on, you old sweetheart! If you take me back to D.C., I will put you out to pasture. This time, I mean it.” Megan patted the dashboard of her thirteen year old car. In response to her plea and affectionate gesture, the car quit running. A blast of cold wind shook the car. Megan opened her purse and pulled out her cigarettes. She had two left. She savored the warmth of the smoke as it filled her lungs. After she took the last puff of the cigarette, she opened the car door. Her feet slipped on the black-iced highway. Huddling her slim body inside her fur coat, Megan did something that was foreign to her nature. She asked God for a favor.
“All I need is for one car to come along. Shit! Driving up and down this highway is not working anymore. Those soldier boys don’t have the money that congressional aides and cabinet members have. I have to find another line of work or I am going to have to do what Mother did. I am going to have to have myself a daughter. But, at thirty, my clock may have tocked.”
Megan watched as her words turned into little pieces of mist that fell onto Interstate 495. Looking around, she did not see a car but she did see a sign with an arrow that led to an exit. She got back into the station wagon and turned the ignition. The car choked into life. Megan stomped on the gas pedal. The wagon jerked off. In 1966, skidding sideways in her green, 1955 Rambler Cross Country Station Wagon, Megan Chambers entered the exit to the Town of Glenarden, Maryland. After righting the wagon, Megan had to find a mechanic in a hurry. Passing through a newly constructed residential area, she turned onto Main Street. “Well, hello there!” she said. She pulled into the only gas station in Glenarden that was open at 9p.m. on Christmas Eve.
When Megan pulled into the gas station, Sam Winston was cleaning up. He was cold, tired and heading home for the night. He would have been gone an hour earlier; however, Huey Leggins wanted his truck so that he could deliver presents to the children at the orphanage on Christmas morning. Since Huey was the manager of the YMCA, the place where Sam was temporarily residing, he had stayed late to get the old Ford ready. He had told Huey that he would drive it back to the Y. Now, this green car had pulled into the gas station . . . and died. Sam was not pleased. Grabbing a greasy rag, he walked over to the car. The lady inside the car had her head on the steering wheel. Sam tapped on her window.
“Miss, may I help you?” Sam said.
Although the activities with the soldiers and the wrestling with the car had drained Megan’s energy, she was a seasoned whore. When her head left the steering wheel, a big, friendly smile caressed her lips. “Why you sure can, honey,” she said. Subconsciously, she mimicked Sam’s southern accent.
Immediately, Sam jumped back from the car. He looked around. He could see his boss watching them through the window of the gas station’s little convenience store but he knew that the man had not heard the woman. There was no one else about. With a perplexed look on her face, Megan was watching Sam. When he did not approach the car again, she got out.
Sam watched as Megan strutted towards him. Six feet tall, slender, with her blonde hair teased high on her head, and wearing stiletto heels, Megan moved with amazing grace. When she got close enough for Sam to see 36DD breasts slipping out of her v-neck blouse, he held up his hand to stop her.
“Stop, Miss. Don’t come any closer and don’t talk to me like that. You will either get me fired or at worse, you could get me killed,” Sam said. He rolled his eyes toward the man looking out of the window.
Immediately, Megan understood. “If you help me with my car, I will get out of here. Will you help me?” she asked. Sam said that he would. After looking under the hood of her car, he gave her some bad news.
“Miss, this car has been dogged. All your wires are fried. You need a new motor. The frame is cracked. Rust is everywhere. You can buy a new car for the money it will cost you to fix this one. Where I am from, people say that with my hands I can fix anything. Well, I can not help you with this car. Not tonight, anyways!”
Megan opened her purse. She looked at the small wad of bills tucked inside it. “I can not afford to fix this car let alone buy one. I don’t think I can get home. Hey, Sam. Is this a tolerant town?”
“What do you mean?” Sam asked. He closed the hood of her car.
“What sort of folk lives in this town? Coming into town, I saw a lot of nice, new homes. I think that the people around here must make a good living but are they kind to strangers?” Megan asked. She had an idea. Tired of competing in the lake that was Washington D. C., she had decided to move to a smaller pond.
“The majority of the people I have met here are good people. Most of them work in D. C. but they couldn’t buy homes there so they came here. Most of them have good jobs and make good money. As far as them accepting strangers, they have accepted me. My folks came from Louisiana to D.C. My brother and his family still lives there but that place is too crowded for me. Six months ago, I hitched a ride up here. I have been here ever since.”
When Megan lit up her last cigarette, Sam laughed. “No offense, Miss, but with all that white you have on and with that light in your mouth, you look like a candle,” he said.
“Sam, you are I are going to be lifelong friends. Since I am not going anywhere tonight, where can I find a room?”
“Well, there is the Glenarden Motor Inn. But you can forget about finding a room there. It is Christmas Eve. And the house and senate are on break.”
“Representatives and Senators. Even if I have to sleep in this car, I am not leaving here!” Megan said.
Sam snapped his finger. “Old man Perkins’s wife died a few months ago. He got lonely in that big house so he started renting rooms. I pass by his place on my way home. The only thing is that I don’t think he rents to ladies.”
“I am no lady. Let’s go,” Megan said. Sam looked towards the convenience store’s window. His boss was not there. He led Megan to Huey’s truck. When he got to the truck, all hell broke loose.
With lights flashings and sirens blasting, all the police cars in the Glenarden Police Department came screeching into the gas station. With guns drawn, all the policemen in the Glenarden Police Department got out of their police cars. “DROP THAT GUN AND PUT YOUR HANDS UP OR WE WILL BLOW YOU TO PIECES!” the police chief called out on his megaphone.
“It is a rag, not a gun!” Sam said.
“DROP THAT GUN AND PUT YOUR HANDS UP OR WE WILL BLOW YOU TO PIECES!” the police chief repeated.
Sam dropped the rag. With his hands up, Sam turned to Megan. “My name is Sam Winston. Joshua Winston, my brother, lives in D. C. at the Jefferson projects on Madison Avenue. Ask anybody around there. They will know him. Tell Joshua that I remember Emmett Till and that I swear on Mama’s grave that I did not do anything wrong.” Sam’s eyes were white; the irises had disappeared.
Stunned at what was happening with the police cars and at what was happening with Sam’s eyes, Megan moved in front of Sam. Her tall body shielded his. “He was giving me a ride to the Perkin’s place. That’s all,” she said.
“THIEF, YOU HAVE FIVE SECONDS TO GET YOUR ASS OUT HERE OR WE START FIRING!!!” Police Chief Grant said. To reiterate the chief’s statement, all the policemen, in sync, cocked their weapons.
“Okay, Steve! You got me. You didn’t need the whole goddamn crew,” Jonathan Monroe said. Holding his hands high, he came out of the gas station bathroom. As the five foot five inch man in a cowboy hat passed by Megan and Sam, he said, “Hey, Blondie. I heard you need a new ride. See that ’66 Eldorado parked over there? The keys are in the ignition. It’s yours.”
Megan looked down at the man standing before her. He looked as if he had stepped out of a poster of the old west. With a moustache that curled upward on both sides of his face, long sideburns, and a rakish grin, he looked as if he could have been the cook one of those long cattle drives. “I won’t give the car back,” she promised.
Jonathan Monroe winked at Megan. “I am counting on that,” he said. As he was being pushed into the squad car, he hollered back to Megan, “Come see me in the jailhouse. We can have us a nice long visit.”
(An Excerpt from the Deposition of Vikki Jane Madison)
“Come on, you old sweetheart! If you take me back to D.C., I will put you out to pasture. This time, I mean it.” Megan patted the dashboard of her thirteen year old car. In response to her plea and affectionate gesture, the car quit running. A blast of cold wind shook the car. Megan opened her purse and pulled out her cigarettes. She had two left. She savored the warmth of the smoke as it filled her lungs. After she took the last puff of the cigarette, she opened the car door. Her feet slipped on the black-iced highway. Huddling her slim body inside her fur coat, Megan did something that was foreign to her nature. She asked God for a favor.
“All I need is for one car to come along. Shit! Driving up and down this highway is not working anymore. Those soldier boys don’t have the money that congressional aides and cabinet members have. I have to find another line of work or I am going to have to do what Mother did. I am going to have to have myself a daughter. But, at thirty, my clock may have tocked.”
Megan watched as her words turned into little pieces of mist that fell onto Interstate 495. Looking around, she did not see a car but she did see a sign with an arrow that led to an exit. She got back into the station wagon and turned the ignition. The car choked into life. Megan stomped on the gas pedal. The wagon jerked off. In 1966, skidding sideways in her green, 1955 Rambler Cross Country Station Wagon, Megan Chambers entered the exit to the Town of Glenarden, Maryland. After righting the wagon, Megan had to find a mechanic in a hurry. Passing through a newly constructed residential area, she turned onto Main Street. “Well, hello there!” she said. She pulled into the only gas station in Glenarden that was open at 9p.m. on Christmas Eve.
When Megan pulled into the gas station, Sam Winston was cleaning up. He was cold, tired and heading home for the night. He would have been gone an hour earlier; however, Huey Leggins wanted his truck so that he could deliver presents to the children at the orphanage on Christmas morning. Since Huey was the manager of the YMCA, the place where Sam was temporarily residing, he had stayed late to get the old Ford ready. He had told Huey that he would drive it back to the Y. Now, this green car had pulled into the gas station . . . and died. Sam was not pleased. Grabbing a greasy rag, he walked over to the car. The lady inside the car had her head on the steering wheel. Sam tapped on her window.
“Miss, may I help you?” Sam said.
Although the activities with the soldiers and the wrestling with the car had drained Megan’s energy, she was a seasoned whore. When her head left the steering wheel, a big, friendly smile caressed her lips. “Why you sure can, honey,” she said. Subconsciously, she mimicked Sam’s southern accent.
Immediately, Sam jumped back from the car. He looked around. He could see his boss watching them through the window of the gas station’s little convenience store but he knew that the man had not heard the woman. There was no one else about. With a perplexed look on her face, Megan was watching Sam. When he did not approach the car again, she got out.
Sam watched as Megan strutted towards him. Six feet tall, slender, with her blonde hair teased high on her head, and wearing stiletto heels, Megan moved with amazing grace. When she got close enough for Sam to see 36DD breasts slipping out of her v-neck blouse, he held up his hand to stop her.
“Stop, Miss. Don’t come any closer and don’t talk to me like that. You will either get me fired or at worse, you could get me killed,” Sam said. He rolled his eyes toward the man looking out of the window.
Immediately, Megan understood. “If you help me with my car, I will get out of here. Will you help me?” she asked. Sam said that he would. After looking under the hood of her car, he gave her some bad news.
“Miss, this car has been dogged. All your wires are fried. You need a new motor. The frame is cracked. Rust is everywhere. You can buy a new car for the money it will cost you to fix this one. Where I am from, people say that with my hands I can fix anything. Well, I can not help you with this car. Not tonight, anyways!”
Megan opened her purse. She looked at the small wad of bills tucked inside it. “I can not afford to fix this car let alone buy one. I don’t think I can get home. Hey, Sam. Is this a tolerant town?”
“What do you mean?” Sam asked. He closed the hood of her car.
“What sort of folk lives in this town? Coming into town, I saw a lot of nice, new homes. I think that the people around here must make a good living but are they kind to strangers?” Megan asked. She had an idea. Tired of competing in the lake that was Washington D. C., she had decided to move to a smaller pond.
“The majority of the people I have met here are good people. Most of them work in D. C. but they couldn’t buy homes there so they came here. Most of them have good jobs and make good money. As far as them accepting strangers, they have accepted me. My folks came from Louisiana to D.C. My brother and his family still lives there but that place is too crowded for me. Six months ago, I hitched a ride up here. I have been here ever since.”
When Megan lit up her last cigarette, Sam laughed. “No offense, Miss, but with all that white you have on and with that light in your mouth, you look like a candle,” he said.
“Sam, you are I are going to be lifelong friends. Since I am not going anywhere tonight, where can I find a room?”
“Well, there is the Glenarden Motor Inn. But you can forget about finding a room there. It is Christmas Eve. And the house and senate are on break.”
“Representatives and Senators. Even if I have to sleep in this car, I am not leaving here!” Megan said.
Sam snapped his finger. “Old man Perkins’s wife died a few months ago. He got lonely in that big house so he started renting rooms. I pass by his place on my way home. The only thing is that I don’t think he rents to ladies.”
“I am no lady. Let’s go,” Megan said. Sam looked towards the convenience store’s window. His boss was not there. He led Megan to Huey’s truck. When he got to the truck, all hell broke loose.
With lights flashings and sirens blasting, all the police cars in the Glenarden Police Department came screeching into the gas station. With guns drawn, all the policemen in the Glenarden Police Department got out of their police cars. “DROP THAT GUN AND PUT YOUR HANDS UP OR WE WILL BLOW YOU TO PIECES!” the police chief called out on his megaphone.
“It is a rag, not a gun!” Sam said.
“DROP THAT GUN AND PUT YOUR HANDS UP OR WE WILL BLOW YOU TO PIECES!” the police chief repeated.
Sam dropped the rag. With his hands up, Sam turned to Megan. “My name is Sam Winston. Joshua Winston, my brother, lives in D. C. at the Jefferson projects on Madison Avenue. Ask anybody around there. They will know him. Tell Joshua that I remember Emmett Till and that I swear on Mama’s grave that I did not do anything wrong.” Sam’s eyes were white; the irises had disappeared.
Stunned at what was happening with the police cars and at what was happening with Sam’s eyes, Megan moved in front of Sam. Her tall body shielded his. “He was giving me a ride to the Perkin’s place. That’s all,” she said.
“THIEF, YOU HAVE FIVE SECONDS TO GET YOUR ASS OUT HERE OR WE START FIRING!!!” Police Chief Grant said. To reiterate the chief’s statement, all the policemen, in sync, cocked their weapons.
“Okay, Steve! You got me. You didn’t need the whole goddamn crew,” Jonathan Monroe said. Holding his hands high, he came out of the gas station bathroom. As the five foot five inch man in a cowboy hat passed by Megan and Sam, he said, “Hey, Blondie. I heard you need a new ride. See that ’66 Eldorado parked over there? The keys are in the ignition. It’s yours.”
Megan looked down at the man standing before her. He looked as if he had stepped out of a poster of the old west. With a moustache that curled upward on both sides of his face, long sideburns, and a rakish grin, he looked as if he could have been the cook one of those long cattle drives. “I won’t give the car back,” she promised.
Jonathan Monroe winked at Megan. “I am counting on that,” he said. As he was being pushed into the squad car, he hollered back to Megan, “Come see me in the jailhouse. We can have us a nice long visit.”
